Assassin's Gift
by Gollum's Fish
Summary: Pre LotR. While travelling through Mirkwood, Legolas finds himself entwined in a lethal game of cat and mouse with the most deadly adversary he has ever faced.
1. Default Chapter

Well, everyone, here it is – the prequel to all of the others that I've done...

Summary: Legolas has always held a deep devotion for Aragorn, willing to lay down his life in order to protect him – but _why_? The answer to that question lies some one hundred and twenty-six years prior to the War of the Ring of the Third Age, _before_ the birth of the heir of Isildur...

Unrest disrupts Legolas' life, strange and frightening dreams upsetting his sleeping patterns. Desperate for some form of solace, he takes himself from his father's palace in search of peace and solutions. What he _gets_ leaves him running for his own life ... and the survival of the Race of Men with the charge of a very small child...

_Hold on to what is good_

_even if it is _

_a handful of earth._

_Hold on to what you believe _

_even if it is _

_a tree which stands by itself._

_Hold on to what you must do _

_even if it is _

_a long way from here._

_Hold on to life even when _

_it is easier to let go._

_Hold on to my hand even when _

_I have gone away from you._

Nancy Wood, _Many Winters_

Chapter One - Tea

_A baby cried. A constant wail was more like what it was, actually. But it was an important baby, for some reason, with eyes of liquid grey. And it was up to him to see to the safety of this child, because it was _important.

_The woman that he had tried so desperately to keep alive was dead, her blood on his hands, and, more to the point, her baby..._

_A man loomed over him, a knife raised._

_A flash of another man, this time on horseback. A proud bay stallion reared under an equally proud master whose sword was brandished high above his head, interestingly with the same grey eyes gleaming with emotion. He headed an army riddled with desperation and wavering courage right before some towering black gates, behind which he knew to be no hope. Just death. Death for the entire force he was somehow a member of. And this man on the horse was highly important, just like the baby was, and he knew without a doubt that he would die for this man a hundred times over. _Because he was important.

_Parched land dominated by Orcs skipped in front of him, and he knew that it was a great city far to the south that had been carven out of living white stone – but it was now razed to the ground along with the rest of the world; all of its thousands of inhabitants slaughtered with merciless, irrational spite. Unseeing eyes stared up at him from sunken sockets, grisly grins of mortal man's bane stretching beneath tight sickly grey, the mere memory of skin and flesh._

_A blaze of steel and a searing pain through his leg – upper right thigh, to be precise – and the original man laughing manically over his spilt blood, raising the knife again and plunging it down right where his heart was-_

Legolas gave a cry, sitting bolt upright in his bed, his breath racing from him, his chest feeling incarcerated because the panic was so intense. A cold sweat prickled his forehead, and his eyes darted about the room, searching for the invader that was going to knife him – but there was no-one. He was alone, completely and utterly alone, with only the darkness of his chamber and the shadows in his mind for company - for which he was thankful.

He sighed, running a slightly trembling hand over his brow to wipe the salty beads away, and listened. There was not a sound to be heard in the palace – it was so early that the maids had not even risen yet, so he decided that now was as good a time as any to get up ... at least at this hour – whatever this hour was – he would not be hindered in what he did...

He swung his legs out of bed and crossed to the dresser, splashing scented water over his face. It was cold and sharp, slapping against his skin – the best way to truly rouse his senses.

He dressed quickly, donning the shirt, jerkin, leggings and boots that he preferred to wear rather than his courtly robes. As the Prince of Mirkwood he was obliged to wear such clothing in the palace – but he had absolutely no intention of staying in the palace today, which was the perfect opportunity to wear what he held in his opinion as being 'proper clothes.'

Having run a comb hastily through his hair and braiding it to keep it out of his face, Legolas slipped out of his room and took himself to the palace kitchens. He was in need of something to calm him down a bit after that nightmare. It was not the first one he had had – far from it.

There was an oil lamp going in the kitchens. There always was, especially for the midnight eater –as Legolas tended to be. The kitchen staff knew of his midnight excursions to the larder and always left a light burning for him.

He took the lamp in his hand and progressed to the fire. The embers glowed in a noncommittal manner, soft ambers and oranges arising after a slight prod with the poker. But with an extra fresh log followed by a little encouragement, flames slowly began to eat away at the dry wood with revamped life – perfect for the kettle of water that he placed above it on the grate.

Having rekindled the fire, Legolas set off for the larder, and selected from the shelves the Wolf's-claw root and pot of honey, plucking a couple of leaves from a potted mint plant that grew in the centre of the kitchen work table as he came back, and it was there that he laid down his leaves and Wolf's-claw, taking a knife from the rack and crushing the two until he deemed that he had created a sufficient amount of broken herb to give a suitable flavour, and he pushed it onto the knife, slipping it into the now steaming kettle.

He scooped out as much honey from the pot as he could on the knife blade, having come to the conclusion that using a spoon was too much of a fuss at this time in the morning. The honey was set, as all good honey should be eventually, and he took a kind of mild pleasure in watching it dissolve in the water as he stirred it in with everything else.

The aroma came to his nose and he breathed it in deeply, already feeling his spirit lift a little just by smelling his favourite tea. It amused him considerably that none other than he could stomach it, and he had had practically the entire household taste it. It was not his fault that they were all abnormal...

He poured out the contents into a mug, straining it, and finally went to sit at the table, the mug steaming in front of him. He sat there for a considerable time, swirling the liquid about the sides of the mug and blowing gently to cool the contents, enjoying this simple pleasure as he sipped carefully, mulling over things in his mind that only solitude and a peculiar hour allowed him to mull.

These dreams were really beginning to bother him now. What did the baby mean? Was the man on the horse the baby full-grown, or was he someone completely different? And what of the woman and the other man? Who were they? Where did the connection lie between all of the components of his disjointed visions? He was sure that this was symbolic of something – it had to be, otherwise surely he would not have dreamt of it so many times. He was not gifted with seeing the future, so far as he was aware – at least, he had never known of events prior to when they occurred. That was something he knew Lord Elrond of Imladris was capable of ... _but himself_...

I fail to understand the workings of my own mind...

The door opened to the kitchen, and Legolas heard the familiar footsteps of his father enter the large room, the slight scuffing that his feet made indicating that he wore his doe-skin slippers.

'Good morning, Adar,' greeted Legolas, turning round to give his father as convincing a smile as he was able to muster.

His father offered his son a smile in greeting rather than words, and he stopped when he came to the table, head cocked to the side as he surveyed his child. Legolas, feeling uncomfortable under the penetrating gaze, turned back to the table, raising his mug again as though through some wish to hide behind it.

'I heard you get up,' the King mentioned in a matter-of-fact voice.

I heard you scream in your sleep, was what he meant.

'I wanted to rise early to go riding,' Legolas lied.

'_At two in the morning?_' Thranduil asked incredulously, staring in disbelief at the other Elf as he pulled out a chair opposite him and placed himself gracefully into the seat. 'Legolas, no-one goes riding at two in the morning, no matter how enthusiastic they are!'

'Well, Adar, you know that you have always said that I was exceptional...'

'There is exceptional, and there is insane.'

Legolas cocked an amused brow at that comment and took another sip at his tea, offering it to his father when he saw the King's eyes watching the mug as though it was some kind of demon. He chuckled as Thranduil shook his head to the gesture, actually pulling back as if he thought the beverage was going to try and attack him.

Thranduil sighed sadly as he bore witness to the presence of one whom he deemed to be lost: his wife. The Queen had passed some two thousand, six hundred years ago; but she still lived in Legolas. That smile; the mischievous glint that had alighted the eyes a few seconds before; the eyes themselves – they all came from her, as did their son's wonderful nature.

Legolas' brother, Baerahir, had resembled Thranduil the most, yet he had still had some of his mother's quirks... But he was gone now, and so was she. Just Thranduil and Legolas left. Only them...

'Would you like some company on your ride?' the King asked quietly. 'Then we could talk to each other for a time, just we two – we have not done that for a while, have we?' He tried to smile as invitingly as he could, tried so very hard to win his son over. He knew that something troubled Legolas – if he was able to get him to tell him about it, perhaps it would ease his mind...

Legolas smiled at his father's proposal, and Thranduil knew by the apologetic crease in his child's brow what the answer was.

'No thank you, Adar – I would prefer to spend the day alone, if that is alright with you, my Liege.'

'Don't call me that, ion nín – you have no cause to at the moment. If solitude is your wish, then I shall not deny it of you.'

Legolas averted his eyes to the tea, watching the steam and feeling shame colour his cheeks briefly. How could he shun his father like that when he was trying so hard? But as much as he loved his father, time alone was what he was in need of at this moment, so he just had to hope that his father understood that.

'I hope you find the peace you solicit on your ride. When will you return?'

'The next day at noon, by the latest.'

'Very well.' The King rose from his chair and passed to the door. 'I'm going back to bed: please come back in one piece, leave the Orcs alone, and for goodness sake don't go near those men – we do not need _that_ again.'

Legolas grinned into his mug at the last point, remembering the incident well. '_That_ was a load of malarkey: I never stole those horses they were mistreating – I simply opened the gate. They ran out on their own accord...'

Thranduil shook his head. 'Always the innocent, are you not, ion nín?'

'Of course.'

'_Of course_,' the King repeated in a mockingly childlike tone, shaking his head to himself as he left the room. '_I simply opened the gate._ I'll simply confine you to the dungeons if you do it again...'

Legolas - much to his amusement - could still hear his father rambling on to himself as he made his way down the corridor and up the flight of steps to go back to his bed chamber. His father was the closest person in his life - the one he looked up to and respected the most out of all of the inhabitants of this Middle-earth. The great and mighty King Thranduil the Wise, the most powerful king Mirkwood had ever had. But, more important to Legolas, he was Thranduil the Father, the one supporting column in his life.

But there was also Lord Daerahil, best friend and advisor to the King, and confidant to the Prince; Legolas was prepared to share almost everything with his father, but was prepared to share _absolutely_ everything with Daerahil ... there were some things which occurred in the life of a child that a parent was not always wanted to be knowledgeable of, and that was where Daerahil came in. Since he had been small, Legolas had always used Daerahil to act as a willing conspirator in certain aspects of his life: the first time being when he had accidentally unintentionally _deliberately_ set fire to some parchment on his father's desk. He had not _intended _to burn that great scorch-mark in the wood, just the parchment. Desperate to stay out of inevitable trouble, he had gone unwillingly to Daerahil for aid. Of course, the Elf Lord was not impressed by the situation by any means, and he still gave the child Prince the scolding of his life about it, but he helped him none the less, telling the King that he had been working at the desk himself and had accidentally upset a candle that toppled onto a scroll which instantly caught, making the black mark in the table before he could put it out.

Legolas smiled at the memory; he had been merely two-hundred and fifty-three at that stage in his life - a small boy - barely reaching his father's hip. But even as he had grown and passed deeper into adulthood he had kept his closest confider...

He left the table, scraping the chair noisily on the stone flags as he rose to dispose of his emptied mug, feeling decidedly better for the tea he had consumed; it always had this affect on his mood, a small comfort in stressful times.

* * *

Blazen was a proud animal: seventeen hands high, stunning grey with dark points to him; a magnificent creature with a wonderfully curved, muscled neck and body, a beautiful head with the darkest eyes one could possibly see in a horse. Agile and obliging to his rider – whom was only ever Legolas, as he allowed no other to even touch his back - he was the swiftest of the horses of the entire of the King's Guard. And he knew it, something that loaded the horse with arrogance. It was odd, Legolas always thought, that a horse could be arrogant. But this one certainly was, parading himself before the mares at every chance he got, tail raised and neck arched, and laying his ears flat and lowering his head at the other stallions. Wild stallions usually formed harems of about five mares, but Legolas deemed himself fairly sound in the presumption that – given half the chance – Blazen would create one with the entire of the Mirkwood Guard's stock of females – all nine-hundred of them.

Legolas brushed over his horse's coat before they departed the stables, carefully combing through the mane and tail with loving hands. He adored his horse very much and they had been through many a battle together. An unbreakable bond had been forged between them - a love and respect that came straight from their hearts.

When his task was done, Legolas placed a hand on Blazen's neck and mounted with one smooth action, then whispered to his horse to leave the stables. There were no chains to the stalls in which the horses resided: the Elves of Mirkwood did not believe in restraining their animals against their will, and they used no tack on their beasts, either, preferring to ride bareback – again this was for the freedom of the horse.

And so it was that they departed from Oropher's House, Legolas deciding to head to the southern stretches of the forest – well, as far as he dared, anyway; he would not take them so far as Dol Guldur, not for anything. He harboured no desire to bring about his own demise in such a way...

It had always been a matter of intense unease for the Elves of the Woodland Realm to have the Dark Lord so close to them, a black veil that often blanked out the stars to their eyes. There was absolutely no question of driving him out – if he was not there, then where else would he go? '_No_,' the King had concluded, '_it is better to have him here than afflicting the rest of the world with his malice._'

However, the Woodland Realm suffered greatly for her sacrifice: Orc attacks were a weekly occurrence, patrols rarely coming back with nothing to report to their Prince. Legolas was Captain of the Mirkwood forces, and so it was onto his shoulders that the responsibility of commanding fell.

He had lead an offensive once against the Black Tower after one particular attack that had razed an entire province of the kingdom, slaughtering some one-thousand Elves. This was something that he could not ignore, the grief and sheer ire too powerful to cast aside this insufferable cruelty – but the mission was ill-fated, resulting in the highest fatalities the army had ever seen, and the near-death of the Prince himself. No: it was most unwise to venture too close to the south of Mirkwood during these times...

The sun ascended her invisible staircase to the skies, reddening the abyss above the naked treetops – half-seven in the morning, he guessed. Now he could see his breath properly as it smoked from his nose, though the winter chill did not affect him in the slightest. The cloak about his throat was there more for the comfort of the weight and its ability to permit him to melt into the background better rather than warmth. Equally, the gloves on his hands were light and thin, for show more than anything else. Show for whom, exactly, he knew not, but he liked the feel of the doe-skin on his hands. Just a small comfort. _The privileges and joys of being of royal blood_. He grinned mirthlessly at the thought.

Being a prince had its highs, and, inevitably, its lows. He enjoyed the commanding position he held over the army – he was exceedingly respected by the men as an experienced warrior, never afraid of getting in and fighting alongside the soldiers, and also for having a brilliant mind for tactics and strategic command in the field. But he loathed the way he was always expected to be present during his father's councils - endless talks over nothing that interested him. And he _had_ to pay attention during such congregations, as his father always sought his opinion on whatever matter they stretched out in such interminable, garrulous sessions. If he could have his way, a topic would be raised and dismissed with a sharpness that permitted it no time to become so boring...

"_Trade with the Lake Men: I propose that we increase the amount of grape intake to Mirkwood and in turn supply them with endless quantities of preserved cherries from the past season – all those in favour say 'Aye!'"_

"_Aye_!"

His lips tipped upwards at the edges at his foolish thoughts. Of course, Council _was_ held about matters like that: how large a quantity of this should be traded for how large a quantity of that, how was it going to get from one point to the other with the river frozen, whether the ice was thick enough to permit the sledges to be put into use yet...

But as well as that, there lay the deadly serious responsibility, the one he felt constantly uneasy about having: the responsibility for the safety and protection of his people. Patrols were an easy thing to arrange, and of late the sentinels had been upped vastly due to the resent attacks ... but to have _lives_ laid into his hands for unwavering shelter during the storm was something he could never accept as a requirement of his duties. People were precious to him, every last one of them in the Mirkwoodian Realm meant everything to him, which made it all the more heart-breaking when one of them died in an attack. _One person responsible for one hundred thousand._

He sighed, choosing to abolish such thoughts from his mind for the time being. He had left the Guard in the capable hands of his lieutenant, Fellren, for the short duration of his absence. The Elf was highly capable, and Legolas trusted him with his life. They had fought side-by-side in many a battle, proving his invaluable worth the world over...

Blazen's hooves thudded dully on the forest path, the one specifically designed by the Elves for easy passage through to the east. He would turn from it in a couple of hours, taking himself into the depths of the trees. He knew the lay of the land better than any mortal or Orc – this was his home, and nothing happened in it without his knowing of its occurrence.

_I think I shall pass down that trench to the south-west of the bear cave_, he mused to himself. _If I meet anything it should be interesting..._ That particular trench was well reputed for being the favourite haunt of a certain colony of Spiders. They were smaller than the average monsters that inhabited the forest, but they were still of a considerably formidable size, well capable of dragging off a horse into the tree canopy.

His quiver was full, the bolts tightly compacted, yet not so much so that he was unable to draw with his usual speed. The white long-knives sat safely in their sheaths, the bone hilts a wonderfully rich cream in colour, gold filigree playing across them in intricate flurries of fine leaves and extravagantly curved tendrils, the blades wonderfully crafted, eagle talon sharp, a gentle curvature bringing the weapons to their full deadly elegance. Not that any enemy unfortunate enough to be on the sharp edge of either of the knives had the chance to admire the treacherous beauty before their throat was slit. They had been presented to him when he had reached his first millennia, gifted to him by his Adar – but before they had been laid into his possession, they had belonged to Baerahir...

"_He would have wanted you to have them, ion nín – may they defend you as they did him, and may wielder and blades respect and honour each other."_

Legolas smiled grimly at the memory, remembering well how the tears had stung his eyes at the gift, the small prayer he had begged of the Valar still strong in his mind – _"Ai, Eru, please let me be worthy of his weapons."_ He had been terrified that he would somehow sully the memory of his brethren with these glorious blades in his hands. Baerahir had been so very proud of his knives, and Legolas held a plain vision in his mind of the Elf sitting under the cherry trees in late Spring, pink blossoms shedding their petals at the slightest breeze. He had been polishing the white steel with a doe skin cloth, lovingly labouring over getting every mark from their gleaming surfaces. And now they belonged to Legolas, and he took just as much care, treasuring them greatly. They had belonged to his brother, and so they were sacred to him, the only thing he had left of Baerahir save the ghostly wisps of memory. He had been a mere child when Baerahir died in the War of the Last Alliance, his demise coming with the fall of Sauron, yet another victim of the Dark Lord's brutality. Legolas still could not understand how the King could stand to have the murderer of his eldest so close by: he was certainly aware that he himself had great difficulty with the fact...

The day wore on with little happening worth taking into account. Robins exchanged their threats into the bitter air, constantly warning each other to stay over their own patch of land. He saw a white hart, tall and proud with marvellous prongs to his mighty antlers. The creature had watched Legolas approach, large brown eyes fixed upon him for a time, no fear passing over them. The Elves all held a deep respect for animals such as this: a beast that had clearly outstood the throws of time and trials of life _deserved_ not to be shot. He had sauntered away in the end when Blazen had come too near, cleft hooves picking nimbly through the litter of the forest floor, the very picture of elegance and grace. It was a white hart that adorned the King's banners, the representation of Mirkwood from the days of Legolas' grandfather, Oropher.

The exact information concerning the death of his brother had _never_ been disclosed to him. True, he had merely been a small child at the time; but he had grown now, adulthood having claimed him many, many centuries ago, bringing him away from the tight security that had been laid about him to shield his young form from further harm – King Thranduil deemed that his son had gone through enough losing his grandfather and brother, and, a few months later, his mother, all in the space of less than a year and at such a very youthful age. He had come across death far too many times in the eyes of his father, so wrapping his youngest in lessons, nursemaids and peaceful skills such as horse riding and diplomacy was his Adar's solution to the problem: a sheltered life locked the doors to pain.

But, from the time Legolas reached five hundred, his contentment in the learning of pacifying dexterities began to wane, soon to become non-existent. He had never shown any real interest in politics – yes, he wanted to defend his people as their prince, but not in the way his father wished him to. The only ability he had obtained that he reasoned to be of any use was his horse riding, and he thought that was done; he had learned – in his view – all there was to know about the animals and submitting them to his whims.

He had been seen one night on the archery fields with a bow in his hands. The guard whom had witnessed the young Prince had rushed to find the King and alert him to the activities of his child. Thranduil had been joined by Daerahil, concealed in shadow behind the young, unsuspecting Elf, and the King had been about to interfere when his best friend held him back...

'_Just watch him, first,'_ he had advised._ 'Observe and see if the fledgling can fly...'_

It had been the first time Legolas had held a bow, but he somehow _knew_ how to wield it – his poise needed a little adjustment, but he was hitting the targets, even though his frame trembled slightly with the muscle strain he was not used to administering to his arms and shoulders. It was at that point that Thranduil relented, though grudgingly. This was clearly the fate the Valar had designed for his son, so who was he to resist it?

Diplomacy was replaced with weapons training, and Thranduil had delighted to see Legolas bloom with such fabulous gusto at what he did. Archery, the King decided, was not enough, so sword and dagger work was instructed. For some reason, Legolas had not been overly fond of this, coming back to the palace covered in cuts for the first few months of his tutoring, not even a millennia old yet and complaining loudly about his fervent dislike of knives and other blades. The King presented his son with two options: continue with full weapons training – or stop sword work and archery to go back to diplomacy and never touch a weapon again.

'_If one fails you in the battlefield, Legolas, then what will you have to fall back on? The answer is nothing, and you will meet your doom, all due to your stubborn stupidity as a youth!'_

Legolas smiled at the reflection. The words had been harsh, but they had had the desired effect, pushing him to continue with knife work and swordplay until he was able to hold his position even against his tutor ... whom happened to be Daerahil, lending his expertise in the art of blades to his young prince...

He smelt the wind with a deep breath, analysing the scent and playing it against his memories. _Snow_, he finally concluded, eyeing the ominous grey clouds as they swirled above the forest, congregating over the mass of bark and wood as though gathering as an army to assail the great forest.

The trees began to condense about the horse and rider, the sky becoming more and more obscured as they made their passage between the mighty boughs. It was here that Legolas chose to leave the road, and he quietly urged Blazen from the track right into the midst of the forest. Blazen picked his way between the jutting roots and occasional rocks in their path – he knew this stretch of the forest well, as his master lead frequent patrols into its depths to deal with the Spider situation, keeping their numbers down to protect both the Elven settlements and the unwitting traveller on the roads.

Sure enough, long threads of web were soon to be seen, dangling with little enthusiasm from the branches, the abandoned mess left by Spiders that decided to go and do something else. But the desolation did not last for long, and the canopy became thick with dense nets of sticky web. The thread of these Spiders was incomparable with that of a normal spider: normal spider webs were beautiful, glistening with dew on the mornings, created by the best seamstresses of the animal world. Indeed, they were even of help to the injured – Legolas had bound many a wound with freshly-spun web for its antiseptic qualities before laying some material over them. However, were he to do this with Spider netting, he would, by now, be dead. It was fine to touch – not that any ever _wanted_ to do such a thing – but if it got into the bloodstream, it was as bad as the Spider venom itself.

The thick grey drapes wafted heavily as the wind stirred – the only thing they glistened with as they shifted in the light was the evil sticky residue used to ensnare the unsuspecting. Legolas distinctly saw a black leg reallocate slightly above his head. The beasts were sluggish during the winter, the cold doing nothing for their energy levels. And with today being so cloudy, they had not a chance of bathing in the weak rays of sunlight, for all that was worth.

Blazen tossed his head, ears flicking in worry, a snort smoking briefly in the air.

'Stille, mellon nín,' Legolas soothed quietly. 'Nothing will happen that we are unable to handle, do not fear.' But Blazen was not at all heartened by these words, and he released a frightened whinny, stopping and pawing nervously at the ground.

Then Legolas tensed.

Awareness and his acute senses flared into life, _screaming_ to him that something was indefinably wrong, and he feared the fact that he knew not exactly what it was. They were surrounded by Spiders, that was true, but the monsters were too dull-witted at the moment to care about what tread the tracks below them.

The odour of warg and Orc struck his nose, blown from behind by the wind.

_The creak of a bow._

'NORO LIM!'

Blazen flew forward, great hooves pounding the earth as they fled. Legolas chanced a glance behind, and his eyes widened with horror at the eight wargs and their riders that pursued so very closely._ Why did I not know they were there? How could they have come so close without my realising? FOOL!_

Bolts were loosed from behind, one of which came so close to Legolas' face that the fletching sliced the skin of his cheek, sending a flaring sting through the flesh of his face. But he paid it no heed, retrieving his bow from his back, notching an arrow to the string. He twisted his lithe form, aiming at one of the archers behind. His aim was true, and the warg now ran riderless. The beast continued, emitting hunting cries to the others, who returned it with chilling howls, teeth bared.

Legolas plucked another shaft and fitted it...

Blazen stopped abruptly, rearing and neighing fiercely as his way was barred. Legolas, caught completely by surprise, was unable to avoid falling from his horses' back, tumbling over the animal's neck and striking the ground with painful force. And all he could see above him was a heaving mass of black and grey, his hearing dominated by the snapping and vicious barks of wargs and Blazen's frantic, terrified neighs into the cold, cold winter air.

The world blackened as he sunk into the clinging arms of unconsciousness, unable to move as something grabbed his limbs and closed about his throat, his body weighed down, freedom stolen. An Orc sneered at his face, laughing in its own guttural fashion.

_Adar will kill me for this..._

He knew no more.


	2. Chapter Two: Lord Daerahil's Honey

Chapter Two: Lord Daerahil's Honey

Warm bread and honey. Blackberry tea. Butter from the fresh keg the Lake men had traded them. Dried fruits from the summer past. All of them fine, good foods.

Thranduil poked the bread with a long finger. Newly baked that morning, the aroma that arose from it was certainly tantalising enough. But he could not eat a single bite of it. The whole notion of breakfast was one he had never quite been able to acquiesce with. Eating as soon as you got out of bed, in the opinion of the Mirkwood King, was wrong.

'Come, Thranduil,' Daerahil probed from the other side of the small table, his mouth full of bread. He had never been one for good etiquette at the morning table. Daerahil held no objection to eating as soon as he rose – actually, he had no issues with eating at any time of the day. 'If you fail to eat that bread, Terenë will be most displeased with you: she did get up early to bake that, you know.'

'Along with all the other dozens of loaves she prepared for the Court.'

'Yes, those too.' Daerahil bit into his bread again after slapping on more honey. Thranduil was amazed that he managed to keep such a huge amount from dribbling back onto his plate from the slice.

'Legolas' little trip concerns you,' the Lord pointed out in a matter-of-fact manner with a sticky voice.

Thranduil peaked a brow at this. Like his father, Legolas held a certain distaste for breakfast. _Unlike_ his father, he had the common sense to simply not turn up to a meal he knew he would not eat. So how, exactly, Lord Daerahil knew of the absence of the Prince was certainly interesting.

'How came you by such knowledge of his leaving?'

Daerahil raised his brow at his King. 'As shocking as this may seem to you, Thranduil, stable hands talk.'

Daerahil, sensing the eyes of the King upon him, lifted his gaze from the new slice of bread he was attempting to drown with honey. 'I have had absolutely nothing to do with his decision.'

'No,' the King said, his tone mockingly sincere. 'And I don't suppose you had anything to do with the new order for extra honey from the South, either.'

'That is no fault of _mine_, dear King: your son keeps eating my supplies.'

Thranduil snorted. 'He's been making that cursed tea of his again.'

'Tea? Which one? He has so many – oh, you mean _that_ tea.'

'Yes, _that tea_.' The King paused. 'Daerahil,' he sighed, 'I know he confides in you. I've known it ever since he burnt the hole in the desk – don't say it was you, I know the truth – but I am _worried _about him, so please, what has he said to you?'

'Nothing.'

'Daerahil,' Thranduil warned, a bite of impatience stabbing at his voice, 'do not lie to me about something as serious as this!'

Daerahil placed his bread on his plate in exasperation, fixing his friend with a firm glare. 'I lie not, Thranduil, it is the truth! The Prince has been avoiding me, if anything – the last time he confided in me was two months ago.'

Thranduil sighed, leaning back in his chair, pushing the plate away from himself. He had not gone back to sleep after his talk with Legolas the previous night, he had been so wrapped up in trying to fathom Legolas' problem.

'He _dreams_, Daerahil. Nightmares. I have awoken for the past six nights to his screams in the most unnatural of hours, and then he gets up! He actually decided to go riding at two this morning; clearly he had the intention of avoiding me, as he dressed to go at such an odd hour...'

Lord Daerahil sat pondering for a while before he eventually said: 'He is not gifted with foresight, is he?'

'No – his grandfather was not, nor am I, nor were – were his mother and brother...'

'I think,' the green-eyed Elf said slowly, 'that he might be having visions.'

'Visions? Legolas? Are you sure?'

'No. But it seems likely, to me. It would explain much, like the reoccurrence of these bad dreams he seems to be having.'

Daerahil picked the bread up again carefully, minding that he did not spill any of the honey. Legolas was indeed exhibiting odd behaviour – it was very unlike him to not tell _someone_ of his problems, and the fact that he had resorted to drinking that abysmal tea of his was certainly disconcerting. If he was indeed foreseeing the future, and a bad one at that, then he needed to inform someone about it...

'I shall talk to him when he returns,' Thranduil stated firmly. 'I will make him tell me as his father, and if he refuses _that_, then I shall make him tell me as his King. I will give him no choice in the matter.'

Daerahil frowned, shaking his head slowly. 'He will not appreciate that, Thranduil,' he warned. 'I fear that if you take that approach, then he'll simply pull into himself and tell no-one anything at all.'

The King grunted grudging acknowledgment to this, realising his trusted friend was, most likely, correct in his judgement of Thranduil's planned course of action.

'Ai, Elbereth: why do we have children, Lord Daerahil, why?'

'Ah, correction: why did _you_ have children. Myself and Fetrenya have none.'

'Yes... I sometimes think you were both wise in that decision. Legolas was one of the last to be born into this merciless world; the things he has been subjected to in his life are simply unfair. Sometimes I think we did him such a great wrong by bringing him into this world of hate...'

Daerahil picked up on the slight knot in his friend's voice, and his brows knitted in sympathy. 'Thranduil,' he said softly, 'listen to me: you have done no wrong bringing Legolas into the world. Neither of you did. As much as I despise saying this, if you had deemed having him later at the time, then Legolas would not be here with you.' Thranduil's eyes snapped up at this, fixing on Daerahil, glassy, reddened and angered. 'Yes, he has been through much, but so have you,' Daerahil continued, determined to say what he had intended. 'Your son is a gift, Thranduil. He is here for a purpose; the Gods gave him to you, and it seems clear to me that Fate has some important role for him in this life. Do not doubt yourself so, Thranduil Orophinion.'

Thranduil ran a hand through his fine hair, dragging it from its braids with his upset. He swallowed constantly to dispel the lump from his throat, but it remained there, just as his pain had never left him, even after all of the years since their passing...

The loss of their eldest son had been a blow Thranduil had found near impossible to bear – but his Queen and dear wife, Salyria, had not coped at all with the heart-wrenching loss of the one she loved so much, and her death had nearly killed Thranduil himself. But it had not all the same, simply because of Legolas. He had known all of those years ago that Legolas was his only anchorage to life. He could not have left a small child alone with no parents... Thus it was that Thranduil formed his stead-fast bond with his remaining son, his love for him unrelenting and boundless. But if something were to happen to _Legolas_, Thranduil knew without question that he was lost...

'You are right, Daerahil: he is due home next day at noon – we shall have a subtle word with him then.'

Daerahil nodded his head at this and sipped at his blackberry tea. 'On the subject of children,' he began, setting down his mug, 'whatever happened to Geldan's boy?'

'What, you mean _Salire_? He is posted in the human settlements around Rhovanion. _Discreet intelligence_ is the name I gave it, I do believe.'

'Is this the same Salire that nearly lost his hands for cheating eighteen men out of their money at dice, and was saved by the Prince just in time when the town executioner was sharpening his sword?'

'Yes, that would be the one.'

Daerahil raised his brow at this. 'Was it entirely wise to administer Salire with _discreet intelligence_?'

'No. But he is clever, albeit rather reckless, and I was rather hoping that giving him such a dangerous task might force him to take care of himself a little better. But he likes to outsmart Men, and one day he will be caught at his own game. Again.'

'Yes, he is an intelligent lad,' Daerahil confirmed. 'But he _is _a bit of a rabble-rouser.'

Thranduil chuckled at this. He had heard from Legolas of the many times the younger Elf had gotten himself into the worst scrapes the King had ever heard of. 'The remarkable thing though, Daerahil, is that he manages to get himself out of whatever mess he creates, no matter how deep the swamp...'

Thranduil sat thinking, staring with unseeing eyes into his full plate. And then a thought struck him...

'You don't think that Legolas will get into any trouble, do you? I mean, he can be a bit rash at times, and that incident with those men the other month was, I admit, rather extreme...' His voice faded away, and he frowned at the well-meaning grin on his friend's face.

'Thranduil,' said the other gravely, trying to hide the amusement from his voice, 'your son is one of the most sensible people I know – _painfully_ so, at times. He has gone for a quiet trip through the forest, with no intention of getting into any trouble. Absolutely _nothing_ will happen to him, I assure you.'

* * *

His senses came back to him. Then he wished that they had not. He could not move his hands, for they were bound behind his back, and his head pounded as though someone were rather nastily riding a horse over it. His shoulder burned furiously at the point where he had landed on it with the fall, and a crude gag of filthy material stuffed into his mouth prevented him from being able to shout out his discrepancy.

But that was not the worst of it. His ears were assailed by the frantic sound of his horse. A frenzied screaming was more what it was, his terror coming to the Elf as tangibly as biting hail. Legolas threw open his eyes, only to see his horse, his companion, his _friend_ being tormented by wargs. Blazen was roped to a tree, his efforts to get away from the snapping teeth and dagger-like claws getting him nowhere. Orcs stood about, watching and _laughing _as they allowed the horse to be played with in such a manner.

Legolas felt hot rage surge through his veins. He instantly began to work at the gag with his tongue, pushing at it to dislodge it from his mouth. It took him what felt like an age, but the black cloth eventually fell to the ground. He flexed his jaw, wet his parched tongue as best he could, rising to his feet in a fluid notion.

'STOP IT!' he bellowed. 'Leave him be!'

The Orcs fixed their evil eyes on him, glimmering with the thrill of their sport.

And they laughed.

An Orc of particularly tall stature crossed the short distance to the archer. They both stood glaring at each other.

'Please,' Legolas pleaded, 'let him go.'

The Orc's lips curled. 'You heard him, lads. Let him go.'

Legolas' heart stopped as one of the wargs was loosed from its rope, his eyes watching in horror as it flung itself onto his horse. He slammed his eyes shut, but that did not prevent the shriek of agony, nor did it shield him from the sounds of the wolf-like creature savaging Blazen. Legolas screamed out to drown the noise in his ears, but it did not work.

Rage and grief consumed him, engulfing the little that there was left of his senses. He lashed out at the Orc responsible for the death of his horse, kicking savagely at the creature. He managed to catch it in the shin, an action that made the Orc holler in pain. But the pain subsided rather quickly and was replaced by anger, and he advanced upon the Elf with a determined stride. Legolas stood tall against his enemy, preparing himself to counter any attack that he was sure would be made – but he had not expected the lightening-like speed with which the Orc punched his throat. Legolas gagged and chocked, panicking as he was unable to breath as pain exploded in his neck. Dimly above the roar of his blood in his ears and his own spluttering, he heard the seemingly distant screeched laughter of Orcs.

_I can't breath!_

_Calm down_, his logical side told him. _Stop panicking. Think about your breathing, and everything will be fine._

_Everything _will_ be fine..._

* * *

He awoke to rough hands unbinding his own, no care being given as to whether they pinched skin or not. He did not know how long he had been unconscious for; however, judging by the dimness of the light, the day was waning to night already.

'Awake now, are we? Good, because we're going – and you're coming too.'

_Going? Going where? _Legolas' insides went cold as a thought struck him – _Dol Guldur! If I go in there, I shall never see the light of day again-_

A knife buried its sullied point into the small of his back, not enough to pierce the skin, but certainly enough to make him move. He walked steadily forwards, steered by the knife; he had to steel his stomach against the wave of nausea that engulfed him due to the putrid breath being huffed at him by his guard.

The warg pack had been saddled, the hideous beasts awaiting their riders. Legolas did not cast his eyes to the tree. He did not want to see what lay between its roots... He kept his eyes straight and face impassive as he was pushed to one of the wargs. The animal observed him with small, hungry eyes, black beads of glimmering evil in the half-light.

'We're going to give you a little exercise,' the Orc at his back hissed into his ear. 'It'll be interesting to see if you can keep up with this beauty.'

_Beauty? Surely you mean "abomination."_

His hands were bound again, this time in front of him, the end of the rope being tied to the creature's saddle. The warg turned its foul head to him, a snarl peeling the lips of the beast back to reveal huge, yellowed teeth.

The Elves tended to leave such monsters well alone. Unlike the Spiders, wargs had intelligence and wit, making killing them very difficult – and highly dangerous. They were a different kind of dangerous to Spiders. They could turn an ambush to their own advantage, deceiving their hunters and then striking when their opposition thought the battle won. Legolas knew of this from a surviving soldier from such an expedition, when the army had been not under his control, but that of Rohdulas. Rohdulas had attempted to corner a warg pack in a gully. He assumed the battle won, allowing his senses to role in sloppy foolishness, letting the guard down at the rear. Consumed by the stupid idiocy of victory, it was not noticed until it was far too late that the rest of the apparently complete pack had penned the soldiers in, and all were slaughtered save one, who later died of his injuries.

Intelligence is a deadly tool.

The Orcs mounted their hideous steeds, caring not for the mess that they left in the small clearing. Legolas scowled as the rope tethering him to the saddle snapped taut and he was tugged forward, forced into a trot as the animals were spurred on, heading to the south. Legolas' pride inspired him to hold his head up, even though his spirit was quaking. He was going to Dol Guldur. He would not be coming out again.


	3. Chapter Three: Spirits of the Forest

Chapter Three: Spirits of the Forest

His feet picked their way nimbly between the jutting roots and obscurely placed rocks, though his mind paid no heed to what his feet did. He was too busy belittling himself to care about what happened around him, or indeed to where his body was being lead, even if his mind was not yet ready to follow.

Curses. He knew so many, in practically all the tongues of Middle-earth, but to him not one of them was strong enough to serve an adequate punishment for his sheer stupidity. Not only was he responsible for his own future demise, but the death of his horse. His idiocy had killed Blazen, and his alone.

_Why do I not listen? If I had accepted Adar's company today, he would never have let me go down that trench, and the Orcs would never have killed Blazen…_ He swallowed. The action pained him greatly, as his throat was badly bruised from the punch he had received. He was very much uncertain about whether his voice would work properly or not after the treatment of his throat – mind you, that did not really bother him, as he seriously doubted that he would need to use his voice again…

A flake fluttered down lazily to rest unconcernedly upon his outstretched hands. He watched it as it melted away with his heat, the water running with building speed as though it were being pursued by some formidable foe down the steep curvature of his hand. It was closely followed by many fellows, who increased both in consistency and size. Despite himself, Legolas permitted a small smile to tip the corners of his mouth. He loved snow – it had always fascinated him as a child and had presented him with the most abundant and special toy to play with, probably due to its short, seasonal stay. Now though, it installed in him a small pleasure through its quiet beauty alone. Many a patrol he had staged during the colder times of year when the forest was carpeted white. The desire to simply let go and sink back into childish habits was almost overwhelming. He knew Lord Daerahil called him "boringly serious" behind his back, and Legolas held his love of snow as a small advantage over the other. Daerahil could claim all he wanted that he held the key to the Prince's darkest secrets, but he did not know this one thing. _Simple little things…_

His attention snapped back to the present as an Orc drew his warg up beside him. Legolas recoiled slightly as the beast snapped at his face, its foul breath washing over him. The Orc, however, did not care about the actions of his mount, and watched the Elf with a kind of disturbing humour playing across his face.

'I'm looking forward to when we arrive at Dol Guldur,' he observed, mock blandness in his tone. But he could not hide his excitement when he said: 'We will make you squeal like a stuck pig. We have … tools … there that the best demons of the night have never conjured for your pathetic mind. We will satiate our thirst with your blood as it drips when your body is ripped apart. There will be so little of you left when you eventually die from the pain that your own mother won't recognise you. But that is only when we have tired of you, of course...'

The Orc watched, waiting for Legolas to react in some way. But the Elf kept his head high and back straight – though he had to fight to stop the icy finger trailing down his spine from making him shudder. He felt his face blanch, though, and the Orc gave a harsh laugh at this.

'Dear dear,' he hissed. 'What will the mighty King Thranduil the Foolish do without his only son?'

Legolas swallowed, only this time he paid no attention to the hurt in his throat. The pain in his heart was far greater. When his father received the news of his death at the hands of these monsters, it would destroy him. His father was alive simply because Legolas was alive. The King would die, and the Woodland Realm would be thrown into complete disarray, making it vulnerable in its time of weakness…

Something made his senses flare. His awareness of his surroundings peaked, and he carefully made a discrete analysis of the forest about them, his eyes and ears picking up on the slightest movement. He could not work out exactly what it was that made him suddenly so alert, but he was unable to drive the feeling that it was something definitely worthy of his attention from his mind. He stole a glance at the mounted Orc, whose eyes were centred at the head of the line. The Orcs, Legolas knew, were just as sensitive as Elves, as they shared the same roots – but his captors were showing no signs that they too detected something in the forest.

He became increasingly conscious of the other presence in the trees, however, not even slightly put off that the Orcs were giving no indication that they felt the same thing. Perhaps they did not. Perhaps he only imagined it. But the possibility of there being someone else in the vicinity preyed upon his desperate brain, and the very thought that there could be others out there who might be able to rescue him was driving him mad. The urge to simply turn around and look was so intense it was nearly painful, but he kept his eyes forward and face steadily impassive.

Yet after a time the feeling abated, and Legolas' heart sank. He was not going to be rescued.

He was going to die.

* * *

_This place is so very dreary_, he thought to himself as he sat astride his horse. The beast pawed nervously at the blackened earth, great head tossing. He knew that, but for the fear of his master, the dapple-grey would have bolted hours ago. _He wouldn't dare_. The thought made him smile.

His eyes turned out to scrutinise the forest below him. Skeletal arms of trees stretched with yearning desperation for the feeble daylight, escaping the suffocating darkness below. Mirkwood was such a dismal place, and altogether boring, in his view. His vision panned the greater distance to the north. The scene was obscured by a veil he knew to be snow – it was going to snow here, too. The smell of it filled his nostrils over the filth of the place. But no snow would ever settle here…

He cast a glance over his shoulder, observing the black fortress behind him with small interest. It was no lighter since the Necromancer had left, and those who now inhabited it as their fortress were no less daunting. Still. He held no fear of them. They needed him for this task, as there was no other in Middle-earth with such a … specialised doyen that could be bought. Not cheaply, mind.

He had no actual allegiance with Dol Guldur, or even its Dark Lord, whose shadow was presently trying to choke the idiotic Gondorians. The principles and actions of Sauron were of no interest to him. He had not pledged his life to any king he would never meet, like most fools with talents akin to his. No lord could claim to have him under his belt. He needed no king. He was his own.

The black gloves were fished from his saddlebag, as the chill finally managed to provoke him into putting them on. They made his hands look longer, and he flexed his fingers in front of his face. Such perfect hands, unbeatable in their gift. All whom had being imbecilic enough to challenge his skill had fallen at their stroke.

Some had dared to call him narcissistic. They never said it again. Actually, they never said _anything_ again…

He scowled as he fixed his eyes on that point in the north that he so loathed. That was where they dwelt. That accursed kingdom where he knew his mother originated. He despised her and her weakness. But the strength of his hatred for her race burned with more heat. The chance to engage his skills with one of them was rare, but it gave him a thrill whenever it happened. Their agility against his, their millennia of experience pitted against his many decades. He always triumphed – but he had heard of one in particular that was said to be as highly skilled as he. His ego burned to be tested against him. He wanted to see if he could shed the blood of this "unchallengeable" warrior…

'Sir?'

He turned at being addressed to observe the young man who stood next to his leg with a nervous glint in his eyes. Well, man was a bit of an exaggeration – barely matured child was a better definition, in his opinion.

'The men are ready sir, as are the Orcs.'

He blinked, and turned his head back out to look over the forest. 'I gave the command that Orcs were not to attend this mission.'

The boy swallowed at the cool, dangerous tone. The older man had to fight to keep his lips from twitching in amusement.

'The – um – the Nazgûl lords demanded it, my Lord.'

He made a low hiss of consternation. He could not go against their wishes, no matter how much he desired to. But the presence of Orcs was not going to be pleasant, and he viewed them as a greater hindrance than any invalid ever was – they were filthy, vile, and altogether displeasing. _Wonderful. This is all this blasted mission needs…_

'What of the Orcs I sent out yesterday on reconnaissance? Have they brought their stupid backsides back yet?'

'Not yet, my Lord – though they did send forth a messenger.'

He waited for a continuation of the message, expecting the boy to carry it out. When he simply stood looking up at him, his temper flared, and he administered a sharp kick with his toe into the other's thigh, which caused him to stumble and cry out briefly.

'And?'

The boy straightened, his face red. 'They have a prisoner with them,' he said hurriedly. 'An Elf of the Woodland Realm, by all accounts. The messenger said he was their prince.'

His eyebrows peaked. 'Their prince, is he? Not for much longer, I dare say – what do they plan to do with him, exactly?'

'The Orc said something about blood and some "interesting tools". Apart from that, he said nothing else.'

_Pity_, he thought to himself. _I would have liked to have a go myself; it would have been quite entertaining to arm him and kill him myself – one does not often get to extend one's hospitality to royalty…_

'A prince is a rare catch,' he thought aloud, giving his chin an idol scratch. But then a thought struck him: 'What do you know of the prince?'

The boy looked startled by the sudden interest, but dared not hesitate for too long – 'He is the second born son of King Thranduil, two-thousand five-hundred and nine years younger than the first born brother, Prince Baerahir, who died when the younger was two hundred years of age. He is now the leader of the Mirk-'

An impatient hand waved the boy into silence. 'I'm not interested in that dribble! Know you anything of his abilities with a weapon?'

'Yes, my Lord: Prince Legolas is the finest warrior the kingdom has ever seen, and stands unrivalled in archery and knife-craft. He has lead the Mirkwood forces to battle and ultimate victory many a time, save one, where he challenged Dol Guldur when he was younger. Most of the battalion he lead were slain, and he too nearly succumbed to death, but-'

'-That will _do_!' he snapped, raising a hand to silence the other. But then he looked at the slightly quailing boy at his side, and his brow creased in confusion. 'How came you to know all of this?'

'My mother taught me, sir.'

He gave a contemptuous snort. 'Your mother,' he said with a sneering voice. 'Women are good for only one thing, and believe me, it has nothing to do with teaching stupid little boys about Elves.'

The young man paled at his words, but remained silent, despite the remark that sat waiting on his tongue. His mounted superior was somewhat disappointed by this, but he did not show it. To show disappointment would be to show weakness, and weakness could be exploited by anyone, no matter how young or stupid they were.

'Very well,' he sighed. 'Tell the men and those abominations to convene here in five minutes, fully equipped and ready to march.'

'To march, my Lord?'

The man clenched his jaw. 'That sounded very much like a question, boy. To question my order is to question my authority, and to do that exhibits insubordination. Insubordination is punishable by a most imaginative death, which would amuse me and hurt you considerably. So. That was not a question of my order, was it?' He fixed the green eyes of the boy with his own pale grey ones, and they glinted like deep ice in the weak light. Just as hard, and equally cold. The boy shied under that stare, and uttered a submissive: 'No, my Lord.'

'Good. Be on your way.'

The young man backed away, gyrating to the side, and then ran, never presenting his back to his elder. "Good. He might just live through today, if he does not irritate me further."

He focused his attention back on the north. The Elf prince. That was certainly interesting. The one Elf he actually wanted to meet – even if it was only to kill him – and he was going to Dol Guldur just when he was leaving. He was, to be frank, rather angered by this. But to have this opportunity to fight the Elf whose fabled ability as a warrior had come close to shadowing his own taken away irked him greatly. He wanted to see that skill himself, to engage in that deadly dance with the Elf. Predator against predator. Elves were, as a rule, more difficult to kill than any other being, and ordinary men found it to be a near impossibility.

_Then again, _I_ am no ordinary man…_

* * *

Their progress took them into a trench, along a lowered roadway. Their track was not barred by any growing thing, save the odd bramble that strayed from the high banks. Trees towered over their heads, creating an emaciated archway, through whose boughs the snow had no trouble streaking between.

Legolas could no longer see much further than ten feet in front of himself, the snowstorm was so intense. It had become so dense that even his hands were covered, their warmth no longer an obstacle to the large flakes. He squeezed his eyes shut in order to dislodge the few flakes that had actually succeeded in settling on his eyelashes. It still pounded into his face, though, the veritable tunnel they were in acting as a funnel for the wind.

The Orcs were hissing and cursing. Snow in all its purity – to an Orc – was like a suffocating cave to an Elf. They detested the clean wisps as they tumbled onto their black skin, and were all the more angered by the fact that it settled on them.

Legolas shook his head in an almost dog-like manner to rid his hair and shoulders of white. As much as he loved snow, he was not so keen on the way it melted on his scalp and trickled down his face and neck. The tickling droplets made him shudder as they advanced over his skin, an army of water he was unable to wipe away. Just a simple scratch would have relieved him – then again, such a thing was not achievable with bound wrists. _Still_, he thought to himself, _this will be the last time I ever see snow, so perhaps having it dribbling on my head is not such a bad thing…_

Birds started to call to each other. An owl screeched into the blizzard, and another returned its shout. Legolas frowned with perplexity at this – what were owls doing being so active in the middle of the afternoon, in a snowstorm of all things? The owl type that voiced itself at that moment was, he knew, almost religiously nocturnal.

His ears gave a twitch, and his back straightened ever so slightly as his senses kicked him for the second time that day. _Listen!_ they screamed. _Hearken to what we have to say!_ His sharp eyes tried to see passed the storm, but the cloak of white was too tightly wrapped about him for his eyes to be of any use. However, above the wailing of the wind, he detected the tiniest shuffle, as of a foot finding a steadier purchase on unforgiving ground. He instantly deemed it a silly thing to focus on, as he was surrounded by feet – but this one sounded different. Shod, not like a padded paw. _It was too much like my own…_

But he could not dismiss the sound of groaning bows, and his head snapped to the side, eyes training upon what he thought to be the origin of the noise, just as the Orcs gave startled shouts of alarm.

Arrows sang their deadly mantra above the wind's bellowing, thudding dully as they found flesh. It was the wargs that were first aimed at, their yelps shredding at the air in awful strident shrieks. Their riders were thrown into the hindering snow, but the temporary lapse in the rain of arrows as their assailants fitted more projectiles to the string was enough. Their own black shafts screamed in the trench, cries of pain telling the foul creatures that their aim was true.

Legolas was completely unarmed. Worse than that, he was bound, tethered as tightly as a sheep about to be slaughtered for mutton. The fact that he had not been hit yet was a wonder, but not one he cared to spend too long marvelling over. He ducked behind the dead warg which had previously dragged him along, and a grin spread across his suddenly much happier face when he saw the fletching of the arrow that had slain it. Brown, broad feathers, the pointed tips clipped. The feathers came from a certain type of goose, and he only knew of one particular people who used them for flights.

The Orc under whose guard Legolas had been was dead, his eyes staring blankly in shock, an arrow protruding from his throat. Legolas regarded the corpse coldly. This Orc had been responsible for Blazen's death. _Just justice_.

Legolas' long hands felt over the body, patting the filthy cloth in a frantic search for what he desired. But for all his hunting, the belt was empty, as were all pockets on the creature's person. There were no saddlebags to sift through, and nothing in the wretched being's boots. No blade at all.

An arrow zipped inches passed his ear, its head burying itself in the road feet away from him. The Elf hurriedly scrambled for it, plucking the shaft from the soil with his bound hands, before shuffling back into the relative shelter of the fallen warg and clenching the wood in his teeth, his mouth as close to the arrowhead as he dared. His arms moved methodically as he sawed at the rope, his eyes crossed in an attempt to focus on the knot that was so very close to his face. The fibres were reluctant to give, toughened with age and treatment. But give they did, snapping and coiling like the tendrils of black vines.

The remnants of the twisted fibres finally snapped, falling from his chaffed wrists with no apparent order or grace.

He flexed briefly, like a hawk that had spent too much time in the mews.

_But this hawk has had his wings clipped._

Legolas had no idea where his weapons were. Just when he really required them, they were nowhere in sight. A bow, _any_ bow, would have been more than welcome in his capable hands – especially if it came with arrows. Yes, there were arrows littering the place, but no bows.

All too soon, an Orc realised his escape, and was swift to alert his fellows about the matter. Being the key focus of several Orcs' attention, particularly in the midst of a battle and unarmed, was never classed as a good thing. Legolas straightened, his feet treading back slowly, eyes never leaving his advancing adversaries.

He dared a fleeting glance at the battle, flitting his gaze passed the black shoulders and raised scimitars long enough to take in the scene… The snow was stained black with blood, strewn with bodies which were already beginning to become concealed by snow. There remained no live wargs, and – thankfully – the Orc numbers were dwindling: where once there had been thirty, there were now eleven, and that included those five trying to re-attain their ownership of the escaped Elf.

Somewhere up the bank to Legolas' left, a voice shouted a command, swiftly following a shower of black shafts from the Orcs. The tone practically dripped with authority, and over a dozen bows answered its demand, creaking above the howl of the wind.

The Orc closest to him raised his scimitar and brought it round in an arc. Legolas stumbled back from the action, taking himself clear of the intended strike to his midsection. But his heel caught on a root, causing him to stumble back. The temporary loss of balance was all the Orc needed, and the Elf's blue eyes widened with horror and the anticipation of death as the blade dived towards his chest-

_A bellowed command to loose arrows…_

-The strike never came.

The Orc fell to the side, an arrow protruding from his neck. His comrades fell in a similar fashion; their dying shrieks soiling the air for the last time.

It was over. No Orcs remained alive – Legolas was amazed, frankly, that he was still alive - and he turned in a kind of numb trance to face the man who came down the slope to see him. Legolas blinked and shook his head slightly._ That was too close for my liking, far too close…_ He rarely found himself in a situation in which he had no means of self-defence and was able to look so closely at the sharp end of an enemy sword. _In the name of the One, I even saw the notches in the blade!_

The man reached the Elf - who was still fighting to get his head in order after his near-fatal encounter - and he bowed in the elven fashion of greeting.

'Mae govannen, Thranduilion,' Cirnan smiled, the Ranger's eyes warm with respect and friendship.

Legolas smiled back, returning the respectful gesture. 'Mae gov-' The archer's voice halted in his speech, his hands shooting up to his throat, clutching at it.

Cirnan stepped back a pace, shock registering on his face at the action of the other before concern took over. All formality was cast aside as he regarded the clear intense discomfort that so obviously ailed the Elf. 'What in all of _Arda_ has happened to you?'

Legolas licked his lips as he tried to gauge just how loudly he could speak without causing himself any further pain. He never expected this amount of soreness to occur after that one punch, nor indeed had he anticipated the uncharacteristic crackle, either.

'I was ambushed and caught,' he managed to force out, his voice little more than a harsh whisper. 'I protested when they killed my horse, and they hit me in the throat.' He would have said more, but his throat decided for him that it had had quite enough of talking.

'I see,' Cirnan murmured. 'Not to worry – we have some salves that will help with the bruising. You're an Elf, so you'll heel quickly anyway,' he added needlessly. 'Come, our caravan awaits us.'

Legolas walked forward to the other's invite, and they strode up the slope together, Rangers bowing respectfully to the Elf lord as he passed. The Rangers and Mirkwood Elves had a very strong relationship, as did the Imladris Elves with these people. It was not a rare occasion that a troop or even just one of the Dúnedain would turn up on the doorstep of the Woodland Realm seeking shelter, and they were never turned away. The Dúnedain were too much like Elves for Thranduil to do such a thing…

'Caravan?' Legolas dared to ask, though his throat reminded him sharply that it had bidden him to be silent.

'Yes: we are travelling to our village in the mountains with the Lady Diyrenë – you remember her, don't you? Arador's wife – you have, doubtless, heard tell of his death at the hands of cave trolls?' Legolas gave a nod of acknowledgement. 'Well, she is heavily pregnant, hence we travel to the village for her safety.'

Legolas nodded again. He had, of course, met Diyrenë – several years prior, actually. The information his memory supplied him with was somewhat dated, and in dire need of an update. The last occasion they had met, Lady Diyrenë had been wearing rather bloody garb as she tended to a band of wounded Rangers in Legolas' own home's healing wing. She had passed him a hasty greeting, informing him hurriedly that there were simply too many wounded to take to Imladris, whose overall structure was far smaller than that of Oropher's House. Even the enormity of the Woodland King's infirmary was barely adequate, and Legolas had found himself fervently thanking the Valar for the good fortune of the troop he had just brought back from scouring the surrounding forest following rumours of Orc activity.

She was, he reflected, thoroughly unfeminine – she had not hesitated to tend the wounded, not even flinching at the blood that stained her clothes and hands. She even had some in a streak of hair which had fallen across her face. She flitted from bed to bed, helping the Elven healers re-set broken bones and restraining thrashing men as their wounds were cleansed and sewn. Completely unladylike, and yet a complete lady – an observation of such a high contradictory level that Legolas had become lost in the thought before he snapped out of his trance and rolled up his own sleeves to offer his aid. In that view, she was the perfect wife for a Ranger, and it was an occupation she enjoyed immensely – well, had enjoyed. Legolas had not come in contact with her for a full seven years, and so had not seen her after the death of her beloved husband…

'She will be keen to see you,' Cirnan continued. 'You are very high on her list of favourite people – oh yes,' he confirmed at Legolas' stunned face. 'Ever since you assisted her in the absence of her husband those seven years ago, she has held you in high favour.'

'I could not simply leave her to it,' Legolas replied with a scratching voice.

'I know – but she respects you for it; never did she think a member of the Royal family would role up his sleeves and offer his services in such a vast and bloody task.'

His brow quirked at this. He had not been harboured from the full horrors of battle: in the view of his father, if he was "going to dabble in the art of war and leadership, then you must have at least a foundation knowledge of the art of healing". He was perfectly capable of tending wounded men, and his skills had been called upon on many an occasion, even for use on himself.

_It will be good to see her again,_ he concluded to himself. _We have much to discuss._ But he smiled at the thought – "discussing" was not something he would able to do much of for the next few days.

* * *

Quick note: Diyrenë absolutely is NOT me in any way, shape or form, before any of you start shouting MARY-SUE! at your computers. They are simply friends, as you will see, so no false accusations! grins Chapter four is on its way, although there will be the delay of roughly five days… 


	4. Chapter Four: Lady Diyrenë

Chapter Four: Lady Diyrenë

He had expected there to be more to the caravan, he really had – as in a procession of roughly thirty people, possibly with a few cattle and mules to complete it. However, there were in fact only eleven people, three of whom were women. Their supplies were carried in various bundles strapped to the horses' saddles, as was customary for the Dúnedain, their garb simple and easily fitting with the terrain. _Just like Elves_, Legolas fancied wryly. The only difference, perhaps – barring obvious style - was that the cloth adorning Legolas' back was very light material, and that of a Ranger tended to be heavier. But it was all designed with one purpose in mind, and that was to conceal.

Cirnan led him over to a tall, proud woman, sat astride a bay mare. Her hair cascaded down her shoulders in lengthy blonde waves, which shone brilliantly despite the weather. A thick cloak was clasped at her throat, of such length it rested like a blanket over her horse's flanks. Although she wore a lengthy maternity dress, she was seated with her legs either side of the saddle, to which Legolas gave an inward smile. _There is only one lady I know who would do that…_

'Mae govannen, Lady Diyrenë,' he said respectfully, frowning slightly at the unmistakable rasp in his tone. He bowed after the Elven fashion, to which she responded appropriately, a smile gracing her lovely face.

'My Lord Legolas,' her voice chimed. 'It is long since our paths last met: we have much to discuss-' but she regarded him for a second, and then added: 'Actually, I think _I_ shall do the talking – you may listen … it would not do to strain your voice. Don't worry; I have already been informed about what has happened to you,' she said, smiling sweetly.'

Legolas merely nodded his appreciation – even those few words had taxed his throat a little too much, and it was currently in the process of punishing him for his flippancy.

'Ellalaín?' she sang out to one of her maids, who instantly became very attentive and abandoned the biscuit she had been nibbling discreetly. 'Could you fetch me the salve for bruising and whelps? And could you also bring over a spare horse – the skewbald will do.'

Ellalaín offered a quick nod of acknowledgement and sprang off to do as she was bid.

'You do not have to go through this trouble on my behalf, my Lady,' Legolas began, as loud as he dared, but he was waved into silence.

'Do not be silly, my Prince,' the woman responded sincerely. She reached down a slender hand and carefully peeled Legolas' shirt collar from his neck. She winced as she analysed it. 'Oh, you _definitely_ need the salve,' she commented grimly. 'That looks insufferably sore to me – no wonder you cannot speak… Still, this salve will help you with it, there is no doubt about that; my mother created it, you know. It's very good for this kind of injury.'

A shallow clay pot was given to Diyrenë, and the horse to Legolas.

'She's old, bless her,' Diyrenë commented on the mare, who did not seem overly bothered by being passed on to a new rider, eyes half closed and head lowered a little. Legolas had no trouble mounting, though he pulled a slight face when he sat in the saddle.

'Oh yes,' Diyrenë suddenly realised. 'I had forgotten the Firstborn ride bareback; we can remove the tack, if you would prefer?'

'Thank you, my Lady, but this is fine,' Legolas answered amiably, shifting slightly in the leather seat in an attempt to find a more comfortable position. _Ai Elbereth! How many decades is it since I last did this? I don't know how the Adan can bare to ride like this all the time._

The storm's power lessened a little, but the snow did not cease its decent, gradually strengthening its protective hold over the earth. The horses plodded mindlessly along, caring little for the sea of white they had to wade through. And Diyrenë chatted along with Legolas, each finding the company of the other pleasing enough. She had talked mostly, as the Elf's throat still gave him some pain. But the salve was having a great effect, dulling the soreness significantly, and he soon found himself able to converse back – though still a little restricted…

'We are going to have such a future,' Diyrenë smiled, placing a hand on her swollen belly. 'I've already made the plans: we will live in a nice little house in the village, and I shall grow crops and sew and keep chickens to sell the eggs, and-'

'-So you do not plan to lead an idle life, then?' Legolas quipped lightly.

'Oh no! I could not simply sit around like so many other ladies do; I'd go out of my mind, Legolas, really I would. Being waited on hand and foot is not my idea of a life. Of course, it's all right for you _men_. Take yourself, or example: you have your responsibilities – and they are not slight, by any means – but you can go out and _live your own life_. You are not told that you can't do one thing or another because you are "too delicate". Men are afforded all of the privileges in life.'

Legolas frowned slightly at that comment, carefully thinking over his response. 'I agree that you should lead a full life, regardless of you gender,' he replied slowly.

'However?'

'However, life is not all that joyful for us…' He paused, not quite knowing what to say next. But he regarded Diyrenë for a moment, then continued bluntly… 'Would you really want to go to war, my Lady?'

'_War_? If the situation called for it, then yes. I would.'

'No, would you _want_ to go to war? Could you kill a man after looking in his eyes, seeing him move, knowing he breathed, just like you? Could you put an end to all of that, and listen to his pain as he died? And what of the worst thought of all: what if he had a wife? Children? Awaiting his arrival back home, when in fact you knew he was never going to return, all because of what you did? In times of conflict, men have no choice in the matter. We have to.'

Lady Diyrenë was silent for a moment, clearly thinking over his words. 'I have never viewed it from that perspective before,' she murmured, more to herself than Legolas. But then she turned to look at him, a question in her eyes, which her lips followed up on only seconds later…

'You have lived this out, I assume?'

'Yes,' Legolas responded, though his tone had become a little distant, and his eyes were unseeing. 'Yes, I have. Every time I kill a man. There is nothing worse.' He gave a mirthless snort. 'Sometimes, I envy you women.

'It is rare that it happens, mind,' he smiled oddly. 'But it happens, sometimes, and when it does…' His voice trailed, and when he failed to pick the topic back up, Diyrenë knew for certain that he did not wish to divulge in it any further, and so let it lie.

They rode in silence for a time, Legolas still shifting occasionally in the saddle he was so unused to. 'I seriously doubt that I shall ever be able to understand the Adan and their love of riding with these things.'

Diyrenë smiled. She knew he was making an attempt at lifting the silence, and she openly embraced it… 'Saddles are practical devices – are you telling me, Thranduilion, that Elves _never_ ride with saddles?'

'Some do,' Legolas replied after some consideration. 'I know that Lord Glorfindel of Imladris uses one; then again, Lord Glorfindel also rides with bells attached to his tack. I don't think he is the best example to use … I can think of no-one _sane_ that normally rides with a saddle.'

'I shall tell him you said that when I next go to Imladris.'

'I should think he would agree with me, actually.'

* * *

Dol Guldur's shadow stretched over this part of the forest, even though they were over a league from the fortification. The chill fingers of the darkness groped at covered flesh as it snaked wickedly through the tiniest gap in clothing. It bit deep, and Gwareth was actually looking forward to leaving the dank cloak of misery the Black Fortress evoked in his mind. _It is such a very depressing and_ _drab hole_, he thought to himself. All in that place was designed exclusively to go against everything normal living creatures thrived upon; it had done nothing for his mood, and it had made his horse exceptionally difficult to handle. The beast simply could not cope with the sheer fear it felt under the Necromancer's secondary fortress, and the dapple-grey's muscles were tight as coiled springs beneath him.

The men that had been selected to accompany him on this most benign of missions were clearly relieved to be leaving. Gwareth scowled with disgust as they practically cowered like dogs on their horses under the darkness. _Pathetic children._

The Orcs, on the other hand, seemed to be quite excitable. They skittered along in front of the horses, constantly shifting their dark eyes into the pressing stillness of the forest, hunting for the man-flesh they had been promised. Orcs. He detested the loathsome wretches. Gwareth harboured no love for Elves at all, but even _they_ were better than these grotesque atrocities, and he still found it hard to think that something like _these_ could come from a people so completely opposite. Still. Orcs were as close to hounds as he was going to get, and their keen noses would most likely come in useful for seeking out his quarry.

As for the mission, he had never accepted anything so _humiliating_ in all his life – the next time his services were hired, he most certainly would _not _mention this to his employer. A baby. He had been hired – for a considerably large amount of gold, mind – to kill a baby. It was an embarrassment, and further more an _insult_. Finely honed skills such as his should not be wasted on such meagre trivialities. He found it very difficult to perceive exactly how an infant could be of any threat to the great Dark Lord Sauron, whom he felt about as much respect for as he did his stinking servants.

He had received no intelligence to suggest the child had actually been birthed yet, which would mean to indirectly slaughter the baby, he would have to take down the mother. That was certainly no great task. Women bore no challenge to him: his father had taught him well about them … they were there for one thing and one thing only – but it was wise to chose carefully before taking any for mating purposes. Gwareth's mother had been very carefully selected, and his father had spent a full month spying on her. As she was a maid in the Mirkwood King's palace, he had been forced to take extra care when he watched, memorising the guard shifts and the times in which the maids went on their certain errands. The hardest part, his father later confessed to his son, was getting her on her own so that he could successfully steal her away without being stymied … but once he _had_, she was his, and nothing either she or the numerous search parties that were sent out could do would change that.

Immortality. That had been his chief goal with his heir, hence an Elven maiden for a forced wife – but he had never truly grasped the fact that immortality was something achieved only with solely Elven pairings, or, at best, a gift from the Valar. The closest thing to immortality that could be gained with such coupling was prolonged life, and Gwareth certainly had that; seventy-four years he had walked the earth, and his face told the story only of a man of thirty. The strong jaw was well structured, covered by a finely trimmed beard. His eye shape came from his mother, as did his overall striking features – his father had never been anything special to gaze upon. But his eye _colour_ came from his father: cold, pale blue, chill as an icy morning in deepest winter. They were assassin's eyes.

Although being related to Elves was something he was far from proud of, it did hold its advantages. As well as inheriting a good appearance, Gwareth also sported the infamous pointed ears, which he covered in his shame with his hair, keeping them concealed by confining his dark locks in a long queue passed his shoulders. They were an atrocity, sullying his perfection in his eyes … but there were advantages to his heritage. His ears were keener than those of any fox, and his eyes were sharp as the greatest of eagles. He also governed a fantastic sense of smell, and he moved with such cat-like grace and lightness of foot that he was imperceptible to any he chose to advance upon.

Which made him the best assassin in Middle-earth that money could hire.

It was such a fabulous gift, really, to have Elven blood running in his veins. It enriched his abilities, making him a truly deadly adversary. A natural talent with bow, sword and dagger gave him that extension of his body that was so desired to take life. A simple cut, a single shot to the heart, that was all it took. However, he could not help but find it _very_ entertaining when his prey fought back. The longest a man had managed to elude him for had been three days, and those hours had proven to be most amusing. He could not help but chuckle when his victims were so disillusioned as to think they were actually capable of _getting away._ Fools. When a wolf pack picked out a particular deer from a fleeting herd, it never got away. He was just the same…

This child and its mother would have no option of escape, either. At least this task would be over and done with shortly, and then he could go and find some _real_ work.


	5. Chapter Five: Light's Shadow

Chapter Five: Light's Shadow

'… agree, sire? My Lord? My King Thranduil!'

Thranduil started, pulling himself up in his chair to a better position. He looked around the congregation to see all of his lords gazing up at him with quietly intrigued expressions on their faces. Then he realised that not only were they clearly wondering why he was giving so little reaction, but that they also were seeking an answer to a question posted by Lord Lithell, whose voice it had been that had roused the king from his reverie.

He had no idea what they had been on about. Never a good thing when his opinion was required. 'I…'

'-What I would like to know, Lord Lithell,' interjected Lord Daerahil, 'is whether the situation concerning your son and the wash maid is really something that so warrants the attention of the Council.' He gave Thranduil a brief glance, a grin twinkling in his eye. The King offered a small tilt of his head in thanks. 'Surely the Orc attacks on the western fringes of the kingdom are of greater importance? As a side-note, I think you should not be so tyrannical with your son. If he loves the wash maid, then let them be together.'

'But my son is _twelve_!'

Daerahil waved an impatient hand. 'Young love is a beautiful thing, let it flourish. Now, back to matters of greater priority,' continued the Elf lord, making his voice louder to drown out Lord Lithell's protestance, until the other eventually sat down, having finally given up. 'The Orc attacks have increased these last weeks. The matter is getting quite out of hand, and-'

'-Is it not the charge of the Prince to ensure the safety of our boarders?'

Daerahil raised a brow at the speaker, Lord Terin. Thranduil watched him also with a carefully masked expression. He did not take kindly to any criticising the way in which the Prince operated the Mirkwood forces. Many years ago, when Oropher ruled the kingdom, it had been Thranduil's responsibility, and so he knew Legolas had no small task.

'And where, exactly, is the Prince today?' continued Terin. 'I find it odd that he should not be here when he attends all other council meetings. Why not this one? What does he deem so much more important than the running of the kingdom?'

'Your Prince Legolas has gone on a brief trip, from which he will return tomorrow at noon.'

Although Lord Terin picked up on the reprimand that rang in his King's tone, he continued nonetheless, looking to the rest of the council for support. 'Oh, I _see_,' he jeered. 'So the Prince has taken himself on a little excursion away from his duties. I am simply glad he sees the current state of affairs as settled enough for him to leave the kingdom for recreational purposes; perhaps I could also abandon my post as Royal Counsellor for a few days? I am sure that my absence would not be felt during our time of crisis.'

Silence graced the chamber for a time, its occupants exchanging glances. Terin looked to all of his companions for support, though when he received none, he eventually turned his gaze to the King. And immediately wished he had done no such thing. Thranduil's face was pinched with rage, his eyes boring into those of his over-spoken advisor.

'How _dare_ you question your Prince in such a manner with such clear contempt? How _dare you_!'

Terin averted his eyes to the oak table, and his mouth continued, though with a notably higher level of caution to it. 'I was merely saying, my King, that I find it odd that our Prince should not be present at this time.'

'That is a poor excuse for such disrespectful behaviour, and I will not tolerate it. You are suspended until I see fit to have you back in this chamber, _if_ I do.'

There was a stunned silence for a time, in which not a soul shifted. Terin finally broke it, however… 'I apologise, my King: it was disrespectful of me to speak thus of the Prince. I was out of-'

'-Order? Yes, you were. You are dismissed, Lord Terin.'

Terin knew better than to argue, and he turned obediently to leave, the eyes of the others on him.

Thranduil was sat with a wornexpression on his ageless face. He gave his brow an agitated rub as though his head hurt. 'Is there anything of dire importance that needs to be discussed today?'

'Well – no, not really, my Lord.'

'Right. This session is hereby adjourned until we convene tomorrow.'

The Lords of Mirkwood bowed their heads at this declaration, though not without wondering why on Arda their King was behaving in the way he was.

As the others left, Daerahil lingered, waiting until all were out of the chamber before he said anything, fixing Thranduil with a questioning stare…

'Is this something a little honey, Wolf's-claw and mint tea will cure?'

Thranduil gave a snort at this. 'No, but I daresay a late afternoon ride will serve the same purpose.'

* * *

Darkness was beginning to stretch its black hand over the land, and the shadows deepened about the small party. The snow had stopped – something counted as a small blessing, as the horses were having real trouble negotiating their way through the dense cover, their stumbles becoming all the more frequent due to weariness.

Cirnan eventually concluded that a camp should be made soon, as he did not truly wish to push their luck too far; all it took was one stumbling horse to take a bad fall to kill someone…

'We will set up camp off the road,' he called behind him to the group. 'Stay mounted until I return with the scouting party. The said party will consist of the four archers. All others will stay with the women, under the charge of Prince Legolas.' Cirnan looked to the Elf briefly, who gave an acknowledging nod, coupled with a small smile. Legolas had no reason to reject the temporary command he was given: he was, after all, a Captain himself, and he was safe with the knowledge that these men he was with liked and respected him, and he them. They would go under his command for this short time without grudge, and would not hesitate to carry out his orders; he could enjoin them to attack Dol Guldur and they would do it.

'Good. Men, with me!' He waved his hand forward for them to follow, and the men obediently kicked their horses onward, leaving Legolas with the three women and two warriors. Because Legolas did not speak, the others did not. He listened intently to the fading horses' hooves, and then to the ensuing silence. The wind jostled the upper branches of the tree canopy a little, and a barn owl sent out a shrill shriek before it flew out above their heads. Apart from that, all was still … and it was this stillness that concerned him.

Legolas had spent all his life in Mirkwood. As a warrior, he had endured countless nights out in the forest. Rarely was it this quiet. _The last time it was this quiet_, his memory supplied him, _there was an Orc attack._

But the horses were calm and complacent, and their riders equally so. Perhaps his senses were still unsettled by the events that had befallen him. Then he scowled at himself: he was amongst Rangers of the North. The Dúnedain. He was with some of the most gifted woodsmen Arda had to offer; they were almost _Elven_, they were so efficient at their craft. There was no reason not to trust Cirnan and his scouting skills.

Legolas glanced over to Diyrenë, noting the light frown on her face and the way she rubbed the small of her back. But she gave a sudden gasp, shock registering on her fair features, both hands over her swollen belly. Legolas was greatly alarmed by this, urging his horse over to where hers stood.

'Diyrenë? Are you well?'

The Lady lifted her bright eyes to the anxious ones of the Elf, and after a second covered the worried expression she knew she wore too plainly with an artificially cheery smile. 'I am fine. Thank you, Legolas,' she added hastily. 'The baby made a turn and startled me, that is all.'

Legolas scrutinised her face intently. She maintained the smile, though her eyes betrayed to him the uncertainty and a thin veil of fear that she truly felt. Having spent so much time with her, Legolas was well attuned to both her mental and physical state … and her body was changing.

It would be a very ungentlemanly thing to do if he asked her if she was absolutely sure about this, and not just trying to ease his mind, so he stopped himself from questioning her on her health. However, he _did_ think of a way to tip-toe around that query with another one that would ultimately give him the same information he sought: 'When is the baby due, my Lady, if I may be permitted to ask?'

Diyrenë fixed him with a suspicious stare, eyes narrowed slightly at the question. 'You have reverted to being exceedingly polite again, _my Prince._ First, tell me: why is this?'

She suspected his motive. _Damn_! 'I simply wish to know when to send the gifts – it would not do to send them too early, would it?' _Good recovery!_

Diyrenë seemed to grudgingly accept this excuse after watching his face for a time, for she then said: 'Not for at least three weeks yet. That should give you enough time to find suitable gifts!'

Legolas chuckled at this, though inwardly his concern swelled. _Three weeks? I fear that was a contraction – even if she denies it - and if so, this is a very dangerous place for her to give birth._ His experience of this particular stage of the life cycle spanned only to dogs and horses. With them, he was an expert – but with _women_? Surely it was not _that_ different, was it? After all, a mammal was a mammal, and they all had their babies in the same manner. He had had bitches and mares that had birthed prematurely, and he could not say the young had fared well for it. Many of them had died, in fact, though there was the odd success story. However, they had all come into the world in a warm stable with plenty of supplies and competent aid. Here, Diyrenë had a maid and a midwife. And if the earliness of the birth did not harm the child, then the merciless elements would…

The Elf stilled his cheerless thoughts at the sound of advancing hooves, sitting up a little higher to see who came. Out of the trees came the scouting party, Cirnan leading, a small smile on his lips. 'Nothing to report, thankfully,' he informed the others. 'Looks like we are going to have a quiet night.'

The fire cracked, snapping the branches it engulfed, the red glow of its greed illuminating the settled camp. Two were absent from the scene, as they were posted on the first sentry duty of the night. All others sat inside its bubble of heat on their sleeping mats, enjoying the warmth they had not had for what seemed like an age. All save for Legolas, that is. He was positioned high above the heads of the others in his chosen place of rest: a tree branch, from which he casually dangled a leg and swung it rhythmically.

Diyrenë looked up at him, confused as to why he should choose to be so high on a cold branch when he could easily be basking in the fire's warmth. 'Will you not come down, Thranduilion, and enjoy the campfire's heat with us? You cannot surely be _warm_ up there?'

Legolas smiled benignly down on her. 'You forget, Lady Diyrenë: heat rises.'

'But I hardly see a robin's perch as comfortable, especially in this weather.'

'You would be surprised.'

'But do not robins on such perches sing?' exclaimed Cirnan, a mischievous edge to his tone. 'Come, little robin, sing us a merry tune!'

Legolas scowled at the Ranger. 'Whywill _you_ not sing?'

'Cirnan? Sing?' interjected one of the other Rangers with a snort. 'A chicken having its neck rung sings a finer tune than he!'

Cirnan gave the offending warrior a reproachful glare. 'That is a very unfair statement – anyway, I asked _you_ to sing, little robin.'

Legolas heaved a heavy sigh, giving his face a rub on his shoulder. 'I hope you realise, Ranger, that a robin's song is not for the pleasure of your ears, but a threat to warn other robins not to invade his land?'

'Be that as it may, I still want to hear you. You are, after all, an Elf, and all Elves can sing – I have heard that you are particularly good, as a matter of fact.'

Legolas peaked a brow at this statement. 'Really. Well, it grieves me to say that my throat is still rather sore, and I fear that a song would aggravate it unnecessarily.'

'That is unfortunate – I would have loved to hear you,' Diyrenë sighed.

'And what of pipes?' queried another Ranger. 'Will you play pipes?'

Legolas contemplated this for a time. _When was the last time I played pipes? At least twenty years ago, probably more…_ 'Yes, I will play; if you have some, that is.'

The Ranger rose from his seat in order go to his horse and sift through his saddlebag. After much rummaging, he eventually produced the instrument and threw it up into the boughs, where the Elf's hand snaked out to snatch it from the air. He turned it in his hands for a time, examining each hollowed wooden tube. The wood had been smoothed by time and many decades of loving hands playing it, and it made him smile to see little tassels of faded dyed wool dangling from it. Yes, he could play these…

He set the pipes before his lips, hesitating briefly as he tried to remember a tune and exactly how to play. Once he had sorted out what he would play, he began…

The pipes made the hair rise on the back of Diyrenë's neck, as they sent wavering yet soft notes through the glade; clearly Legolas was not willing to raise too high a noise. It sounded like a caged songbird finally freed. She had listened to pipes often, but never before had she heard them being played in this way before, and nor this tune. But it was beautiful; light and energetic, it set her heart high in her chest – yet there were melancholic undertones in it, a certain something that saddened her. She sat and listened to the sweet melody, her eyes closed as she envisioned the inspired thoughts the music arose in her mind.

Legolas finally lowered the pipes and rested them on his knee. It had felt odd at first, but he had gradually become accustomed to what he was doing, and memory served him well in the end. Not only had he not played pipes for so long, but he had not rung a note from _any_ instrument for a good few decades… Why not? It made no sense to him – he could draw a tune from any of the means of a musicians' trade; he had just not done it of late…

'Whence did that song originate, Legolas? Assuming it does _have_ a song, that is?'

Legolas gave a slight start at being addressed, pulling himself from his reverie. 'It was composed by Lindir of Imladris, in celebration of the victory of the Last Alliance. It also tells of the losses suffered by our people and those of our allies.' _It tells of my grandfather and brother._

'I thought it had an element of sadness,' Diyrenë commented softly. 'So glorious and yet so very, very sad…' Her voice faded, and that same frown donned her face again. Her long fingers wrapped over her swollen belly, and the frown was swiftly replaced by a grimace of pain.

Legolas noticed her distress before any of the others, sitting bolt upright as he realised what this meant: _She is having it NOW!_ 'CIRNAN!' he bellowed, causing the Ranger to start. He gestured to Diyrenë, just as the woman let out a shrill cry of agony. He had never seen humans move as fast as they at that moment … but concern for what they did below him was quickly being cast from his mind.

The Elf leapt to his feet, trying to get a better look to the west of the camp. He had that feeling again, that horrible feeling that things were just about to get considerably worse… He made his way with competent speed up the tree, able as a squirrel, until he stood upon the highest branch that would hold his weight. The stars had finally managed to pierce the heavy shroud of cloud. And it was by their light that he saw the black shapes skittering over the earth towards the camp.

'YRCH!'_ Not Orcs, not now, please, Valar!_


	6. Chapter Six: Waking Nightmare

Firstly, I must say sorry to you all for the extreme lateness of this chapter begs for forgiveness. However, in an attempt to make it up to you all, I've made this a super long chapter. When I say that, I mean it's even bigger than the first chapter, which - by my standards - was pretty hugh. Profuse thanks for your patience, and the odd encouraging prod from some of you cough cough Deana!

Now. Enjoy!

Chapter Six: Waking Nightmare

Panic filled his heart as he perceived the Orcs. There were simply too many of them for the group of Rangers to cope with, even with Legolas' aid. Diyrenë required the attention of at least one of the men for protection whilst her midwife cared for her. The Orcs outnumbered the company two to one, and that was with all of them fighting. _Simply not enough_. In the face of being so horribly overwhelmed, Legolas proceeded with a frantic hunt for solutions. His riled brain overturned many thoughts, but few were of any use: running was taken into consideration … but the Lady was in labour, and getting everyone on horseback before the enemy hit the camp was, frankly, an impossibility. The same logic was applicable to hiding. There was simply no other option open to them.

_We have to make a stand._

But the side of Legolas' brain that was dedicated to thinking through situations fully – running completely against the side that thought brashly and caused him to act upon impulse – was currently taking great joy in belittling him with its cruel logic… _Idiot! Make a stand, and you _will_ die! How, exactly, do you propose to both protect Lady Diyrenë and engage in combat at the same time with the odds so against you?_

But upon this thought, Legolas selected to ignore the ranting of his own mind, and plucked his bow from his back. The dark wood warmed in his hands, its craft fitting into his hand like a sconce into a bracket. This weapon had been constructed for his use and his only. They were one, he and the bow, and the familiar touch installed a quiet calmness into his spirit.

An arrow sliced the crisp air, the angle at which it was fired causing it to sing a shrill song of a macabre melody as it found its mark. The fall of this one Orc helped him somehow, equipping him with a steadily rising confidence. They could win this. It _was_ possible, even though prospects appeared bleak.

Another arrow to the string…

At his shout, the Rangers had quietly dispatched themselves, melding into the shrub, lost as shadows in the darkness. Their disappearance was complete, and Legolas, eyes as sharp as they were, was hard pressed to locate them. But spot them he did – at the same moment that he realised there were arrows training on him. He held the absolute attention of the Orcs. There were positive and negative elements to this situation. As long as they focused on _him_, they neglected to look for the Rangers, into whose circle they now wandered unawares, their eyes all on the Elf. He knew the Rangers planned to trap them. This was all very well and good, but it also meant they were perfectly aware of his exact position, placing Legolas in a rather large predicament. And there was one section of his mind that maintained the indignant thought of: _The Rangers are using me as bait!_

He was gauging. In his mind, measurements were being taken as he stared at the arrow tips pointing so fixedly on him. He estimated exactly where the arrows would fly once loosed. Distances were judged with a precision that was keen as a cat's, the required muscle tension being rapidly asserted for every needed limb, the give of the branch beneath his feet carefully assessed, all during an eternity of seconds, in which Legolas braced himself to be shot.

The Rangers waited.

The Orcs edged that little bit further

The arrows accended into the boughs.

Legolas had an odd sort of tranquillity running through him. He considered it a bizarre feeling, but one of vital importance. If he did not have this unwavering calmness during situations such as this, he would fall to pieces. Were he simply to think about the true implications of the dangers he placed himself in, there was not a shadow of a doubt in his mind that he _would_ be thrown into an irrecoverable terror. But, as it was, there was no such fear in his mind, and that was why he was still able to enact the procedure he had conceived a few seconds prior. Legolas' feet used the branch upon which he stood as a veritable catapult, gathering the momentum he required from it in a single push. He ascended into the higher boughs as shafts ripped at where he had previously stood, exuding grace even as he made his hastily constructed retreat. His hands wrapped about the girth of a branch, and he swung himself over and up, placing his feet lightly on the wood. It gave slightly with his weight, but not enough to send him plummeting to the earth below.

With their bowstrings bare, the Orcs were at a severe disadvantage when the Rangers made their attack. Cloaks whipped out into the snow, shadows of death. Swords sang against their sheaths as they were drawn. Though the Orcs were surprised by the attack, they were far from defenceless, and it took mere seconds for them to regain their orientation and draw the vile scimitars they so favoured when it came to hewing at bodies, casting down the bows like a child would with an old toy. And they threw themselves into this new fight with all the gusto of a bloodthirsty pack of Wargs, their ugly blades slamming into the glimmering planes of the swords of the Dúnedain, screeching into the ill night.

Though the battle raged on the ground, Legolas did not dare surrender his position in the treetop to join it. His vigilant post was invaluable, and he knew as much. Instead, arrows streaked from his bow with as much vigour as he was able to muster, launching into the air and finding their mark in an Orc's back whenever such an opportunity presented itself. The one thing that concerned him was hitting one of the Rangers; even though it took a split second for an arrowhead to hit its target once loosed from the string, the battle below did not falter in its flow just for an arrow to find the correct mark.

There was more to this attack, the Elf knew it in the pit of his stomach. The feeling of unease, the sense of a higher form of danger, began to assert itself in his mind, and, once there, it would not allow him any solace. Orcs were not renowned for their intelligence, but they knew better than to attack a band of Rangers, even if their numbers were greater. Something else was at foot here, and that knowledge was extremely unsettling.

He could hear Diyrenë crying out her pain into the bitter air, could feel the palpable panic of the two maids as they worked to help their Lady through her birth in the midst of a battle. He wanted so badly to help them somehow, to be of some form of assistance. But that was not possible: the best he could do was defend them from the tree…

The battle was going ill. Two Rangers were dead, and the others tiring. True, there lay several Orc corpses in the depths of the stained purity of the snow, but there were others to fill their places.

Soon to be more.

The hair rose at the nape of his neck, and his spine gave an irrepressible shudder. His fine hearing picked up the sound of their scuffling feet and harsh breath, and Legolas felt his heart freeze in horror as he turned and observed the oncoming masses.

_Oh no_.

Twenty of them. At least. And they all smelt the blood hanging on the air, the smell of battle radiant to their loathsome minds. Legolas could hardly find the courage to say the figure out loud to warn Cirnan. Twenty meant sure death to them all. To say it would be accepting the fact. But he did not need to speak it, for the Ranger had been watching him, observing the Elf for any signs of further attack. He had seen Legolas looking the other way, and had followed his gaze. Now the pair turned their eyes to each other, and without words shared the knowledge that they were all going to die. Cirnan gave a wavering smile. _Oh well,_ it said. _We tried._ But he was not ready to go without a good fight beforehand, and the man braced himself between the Orcs and the women, a one-man shield against an onslaught of demons.

There was no longer any use left in his position amongst the boughs. He realised this now, and Legolas descended as rapidly as he was able from his high post, intent only on helping Cirnan through what he did not doubt as being their final trial on this earth. If this were to be the way in which his life ceased, he would have it no other way.

The Elf joined his human companion silently, calmly drawing his white knives that he so valued and bracing them before himself. No word was said, nor glance exchanged; Cirnan drew comfort simply from the presence of the Elf, the sound knowledge that, at least, there was someone to fight with him, and someone to witness his death and morn his loss, even if it was for only a short time before Legolas himself succumbed to more or less the same fate.

As the Orcs approached, Legolas paused briefly, examining the scene behind him playing out between the women. There was so much blood, frantic movements, panic, and immeasurable pain condensed into that one small area. The thought of it made his head reel. But it was the safety of the _women_ that mattered, nothing else. His own survival was of little to no consequence. They were what mattered. So he began to edge further forward towards the oncoming Orcs. Cirnan at did not question the action, but followed at his side. Whether he understood Legolas' intention or no, the Elf did not know, but was grateful that his motives were not questioned.

Scimitars raised, their ugly, angular heads stark against the white background: snakes poised for the strike. The Orcs pushed forward, though with some reluctance as to who should go first; this was, after all, a Ranger and an Elf that they faced, and the Orcs knew how competent both peoples were in the field of battle.

Cirnan, however, did not permit them to choose. He lunged forward, gleaming blade severing a head before seamlessly gliding into a stomach. This time, it was Legolas who followed, performing his graceful and deadly dance amongst his enemies, the lightening-fast strikes of his knives leaving Orcs dead in the snow, throats gaping wide like extra mouths. The pair ducked and parried, often back-to-back, providing each other with a much-needed defence against the heaving masses of their enemies. But, even together, they were overwhelmed. There was no opportunity Legolas could see that would allow them both to live out this nightmare they were trapped in and emerge on the other side alive and whole.

The Orcs, after a seeming eternity of jabbing at their opponents with no real strategy, finally pulled their force together and worked to separate the pair through relentless pushes. Underneath the rain of slicing swords and crude knives, Elf and man were driven apart, neither of them able to defend both themselves and their partner. Legolas found himself alone, and the focus of a good half-dozen adversaries, the only ones confident enough to take him on. He stood in the centre of their circle, daring them to attack him. _Come on_, he jeered inwardly. _Let me carve my name on your cowardly bellies._ The Orcs hissed and spat at him, the simultaneous sweep of several weapons causing him to back away from the blackened blades. It was he and his two long knives against six of them … their advantage was almost painful to think of. They were too tightly formed for him to make his escape between them, their scimitars poised ready for such an action.

The Orcs all made a push at once, ramming their blades viciously forward, to which Legolas responded with a lightening-fast flash of white. One Orc that had ventured too close fell dead … much to the rage of his companions, whose snarls became all the more vehement for their loss. The attack became more ferocious and persistent, each surge executed with more venom than the last.

Legolas was forced back through the trees from the battle, and, upon snatching a glance past his foes' shoulders, he could no longer see the Rangers, or indeed the clearing. He was losing his ground to these abominations. Anger exploded within his heart, and it made his next resistance all the more powerful. _Cirnan is on his own, the other Dúnedain are most likely dead, and Diyrenë is in labour in the middle of a battle! And why? Because of these filthy monstrosities!_ Teeth gritted, Legolas gave the fiercest retaliation he was able, actually managing to regain lost ground with a flurry of enraged slashes and stabs. Flesh was pierced, a neck spilled lifeblood into the snow, gushing black into white. Still he continued his furious assault, his body no longer needing his mind to work. Another fell, squealing sharply as it clutched its belly and then becoming still. The memory of muscle came into play, serving him as brilliantly as it ever had done. Centuries of training and experience flowed from his movements as he became a machine, skills honed so keenly that they could work independently of conscious thought. He was going to get to Cirnan and Diyrenë, and no number of Orcs could stop him.

His shoulder flared in white-hot agony and he gave a short cry in his shock and pain, sparing only a split second to view the slash left by a scimitar in his left shoulder. It was not life threatening, but it certainly hurt horribly, and raising his knife suddenly became a difficult task through the pain. _Pain does not last, it does not matter – it's just a notification that there is a something wrong. You know what it is, you know how severe the problem is, so get on with it!_ Legolas stiffened his resolve, rising in his moment of weakness to dampen the anger he felt for himself. His self-reprimand did not work quite well enough, though, and he found himself depending heavily on his right arm for all blocks and attacks. His left arm was near useless, the heated sensation of blood steadily soaking his clothing, a light trickle making his skin tingle.

This situation was no good. Legolas' injury, combined with his dependency on his right arm, was causing him to tire. There was no hope of the Orcs simply backing off and leaving him alone – such an act of mercy was not the kind of thing an Orc would indulge in. He had to get himself out of this, and now, or it would surely be the end of him.

_One heavy push, and you can be out of this,_he reassured his doubting mind. _Just the one, and all will be well again._ He sneered at that notion contemptuously. How could it possibly be _well again_ when they were so outnumbered? It was not something he wished to entertain any longer, though, and the Elf focused his attentions on this final push in which he planned to rein in the pull of his pain and defeat his foes. Either he succeeded this time, or he died. He knew it was that simple.

Blanking the protesting agony in his shoulder, Legolas tensed the muscles in his body, preparing them for the last attack he wished to make, sharply taking in the position of the remaining three. They were spread out a little more now – not so much as to permit him to escape, but wide enough for their reactions to be sufficiently delayed. The one before him was the furthest away, carefully out of knife reach. The other two, however, were a little bolder than their companion, though their scimitars were raised defensively. They waited for a sudden burst of movement so that they could finish him, Legolas was sure of that.

The Orc to his right gaped in shock as a knife sliced his stomach, quick as a viper and equally deadly. Legolas was leaning heavily on his right leg, practically on his haunches in order to escape the blade of the Orc's weapon. And, just as anticipated, the left-hand Orc made his attack with the fall of his companion, but a second later. Through lucky prediction, Legolas had theorised that the Orc would bring the scimitar round in a swinging motion in order to take the Elf's head off. As the Orc charged forward, Legolas rose with incredible grace, gyrating into the Orc's attack and inside his swing, throwing his weight onto his left leg and behind his knife. The gleaming metal shimmered black in the night as it plunged deep through the gut. The Orc froze, shock at this sudden pain staying his movements. But it did not last for long, as the stunted legs buckled and he fell forwards, further onto the knife. Legolas, recognising that there was a danger of his blade getting stuck in the ribcage, withdrew the weapon abruptly, disgust on his face as the creature collapsed at his feet.

The remaining Orc stood motionless for a few seconds, and Legolas watched him, his eyes burning with a hot iciness with regards to the foul being's welfare. The Orc seemed to pick up on this, for he hissed venomously, and then turned to run away through the trees.

All was still. He breathed deeply, and again, closing his eyes and swallowing down the waves of hot agony that tried so hard to sway him. But there was a deafening silence to the place now. It was wholly unnatural. Legolas opened his eyes to the pressing darkness, and was greeted by a pressing stillness. The trees did not offer any hidden foes, nor any allies, their dark trunks black against the shadowed snow.

He started as the silence shattered with a piercing scream, physically jolting with the shock. A second later, it resonated again. It was riddled with pain and fear.

_The cry of a woman_.

Legolas hared through the trees back to the clearing, panic gripping his heart, his blood pounding in his ears. He did not hear the crying of a new-born baby, or indeed the sound of other women's voices. _Please let them be safe, please_...

He cleared corpses as they lay in his path, sparing them no time ... until he crossed Cirnan. He was dead. Orc bodies lay sprawled around the Ranger, snow stained by their black impurity. A steady pool of blood spread slowly from a deep wound in Cirnan's stomach, but that was not what had killed him; an arrow protruded from the point where his collar bones met, right at the peak of his breastbone. Legolas stopped, at once saddened and suprised by the Ranger's fall. It was not an Orc arrow: the fletching was of goose feathers, grey in colour, neat and crisp, rather than the tattered crow feathers Orcs favoured. It was a human's arrow. Legolas looked about him, further between the trees than before. He could see no trace of a man other than the one before him.

The shot was perfectly aimed. He sevearly doubted that it was a lucky one. The angle of the projectile was tilting upward, a sure indication that the arrow was loosed from some distance. _Such a perfect shot ... I've never seen a bowman not of my race with such a skill._

It made him shudder with revultion. It was such an accurate shot that he doubted he himself would have been able to execute it so precisely. Murdered by one of his own race. Legolas could never understand such a thing: Elves did not kill other Elves – save during the Kinslaying, that most horrific event that marred their history. But humans? It seemed to be a frequent thing for them...

Another scream lifted him from his revery with a shock, bringing his thoughts back to the task he prviously had in mind. Leaving Cirnan's body with one last glance, a final _I am so sorry_, Legolas commenced his flight to the clearing where he had last seen Diyrenë. The snow was no longer crisp and white under his feet, but churned and reddenned. He could smell the blood hanging on the air, and it sickened him. Scenes of battle had met his eyes regularly, but rarely did he observe such mindless slaughter...

The maid and midwife were both dead, their throats slit, bodies horrificly mutilated. Their blood seeped through the snow in channels, almost like those used to filter melted ice over a fire for drinking water; save this was the essence of Death, not the sustainance of Life.

In the centre of the crimson sea lay Diyrenë, covered in blood, gasping and moaning in her consuming agony. Blood surrounded her, her skirts soaked from the first stage of birth. _Her birth!_ Legolas cleared the earth between himself and the Lady, skidding on his knees to a halt before her … and was pained by the sight of an arrow, black and evil, protruding from under her rib cage, through her stomach. A mortal wound, Legolas knew. A damning thought invaded his mind … she would never see her child grow.

He grasped her hand, wringing it tightly. Diyrenë panted, eyes clenched in her pain. 'Legolas,' she gasped, 'help me – please...'

He wanted to help, more than anything … but helping meant delivering, something he had _never_ done with either a human or Elf-maid before. He had to, though. There was no choice open to him.

Legolas unfastened the gauntlets on his forearms, ramming them into his belt and rolling his sleeves up.

The world throbbed with her pain, the air pulsating with her cries of agony into the night. Beads of sweat collected across her brow, her breath coming in short, gasping gulps, eyes screwed up against her torment as she tried with all her soul to deliver her child. The stick she had been issued by the Elf had been hardly sufficient, and her teeth had made short work of it.

Legolas tried so hard to sooth her in her obvious distress, but his own hindered him greatly. He knew nothing of this matter: his experience with horses and dogs was reduced to nothing. Diyrenë had lost both her maid and midwife during the attack, so all expertise in this field was lost to them both. He could fight battles, tame wild horses, defeat Spiders, even trick the senses of Orcs, which were so akin to his own heightened awareness. But _this_…

'You are doing well, my Lady,' he offered, installing as much confidence into his voice as he could – though that did not prevent that slight waver that his own ears detected in his usually steady tone.

He was horribly aware of the loudness of her next scream, hearing it echoing through the trees. The snow was stained red with her blood – far too much blood, and his eyes found it difficult to focus on anything save the arrow that had been embedded up into her ribcage through her stomach. He was amazed, quite frankly, that it had missed the baby … but he was still greatly pained that it had hit her at all. He had become very fond of the widow on the travels with the Rangers, and to see her inevitable demise broke his heart.

He feared the enemy that had taken them so unaware would return in force any time now, expected them to return through the trees, black ghosts readying themselves to darken the night further…

'You must - take it to the village,' she gasped between contractions, forcing her eyes to focus upon the nervous Elf briefly, imploring him to do this task for her, and then throwing her head back and crying out her misery as pain engulfed her once more, the arrow ripping at her with the next contraction. 'Arya if it is a girl, an-and Arathorn be it a boy.'

'No, my Lady,' Legolas responded, desperation ringing in his voice. '_You_ will take your baby to the village, and you will both be well.' He grabbed her heated hand, squeezing it with the intensity of his feelings, his sheer desperation to cling to her life. His greater half believed his own naïve words, though the other side protested. _You fool! Do not _lie_ to her in such a manner! You know that she will die this night, as does she! How could you try to deceive her in such a way?_

Diyrenë shook her head fiercely, and Legolas sensed the taxation she underwent for such an action.

'The baby must survive,' she uttered, her voice beginning to fade, a rose losing its scent to death. 'You must ensure-' She stopped mid-sentence as another contraction wracked her body, and she released her piercing shriek of agony to the cold night air.

The touch of new life. Despite the desperation of the situation, Legolas was completely taken in by the writhing form in his hands, covered in blood and other fluids, tiny balled fists waving needlessly in the bitter air. _The bitter air_. He abruptly remembered that this was no Elf he held in his hands, and shed the cloak that covered his back, wrapping its warmth from his own body about the child in his grip, shielding the minuscule, bawling life from the harshness of deepest winter.

'Look, my Lady,' he began, stunned elation making him laugh tensely as he held the baby forward to Diyrenë. 'Your-' His words failed in his throat as he gazed upon her still body. Her eyes were open, yet they were completely devoid of pain, despite the story the lines in her face scripted. They were peaceful, contented at bringing her child into the world before she passed from it. That had been her soul intention, nothing more, nothing less. Legolas lidded them with gentle fingertips, sheilding the from the unforgiving, evil night.

He regarded her with a deep sadness. The poor creature had been so very young! A budding woman, who was willing to take on the task of single parenthood with the death of her husband, all of her plans for a wonderful life torn asunder due to one black-fletched arrow, leaving her baby in the world as an orphan.

_An orphan in my hands._

The thought struck him, a blow in the chest that he had neither thought of nor anticipated. This baby had been faithfully placed into _his_ care, he, who had no knowledge of children _what so ever_, nor of parenting – rearing foals, again, was his doyen with babies. He could cope with that – all he had to do was milk a mare that already had a foal and feed the orphaned creature himself.

_Ai, Eru – what will I do for milk?_

Panic sang through his heart like a saw through wood. This child would die for certain if he did not solve this problem, and quickly. But that was not the immediate problem before him: he needed to quieten the baby before undesired attention was turned their way. He had his deep-rooted foreboding sense running through him again, and he had long ago learnt to entrust his life to this feeling.

'Stille,' he soothed, slipping to his own tongue, hushing gently, placing a finger in the mass of tiny digits on one of the hands. Small, podgy fingers wrapped about his own, gripping contentedly to it with a small dose of strength. Legolas breathed a sigh of relief as the baby Arathorn, future father of the leader of Men – if the dreams were true – clung to him, no more sound being emitted from his narrow lips.

Something stirred in the air, and the Elf stiffened. His senses screamed to him that something ill was coming their way, and, sure enough, he smelt it on the wind: Orcs. There was also the scent of horses. Another smell met his nostrils, but he was unable to discern it in the conundrum of various odours. Orcs were a definite, however, and that was enough for him to want to move extremely fast.

Where could he go? They were clearly too close for him to run – he was only able to make no mark on snow if he walked, the inevitability of prints appearing with a faster action due to his need to push from the surface. The marks would be light, but more than enough for even the most inexperienced of trackers to pick up.

_You are an Elf, for the love of Ilúvatar!_he thought, condemning his panicked state viciously. _THINK!_

Trees. He had grown up in them, practically. As a Wood Elf, they were his natural protectors. He wasted no time in scaling the nearest beech, leaping nimbly from branch to branch, his lithe form and cat-like agility permitting him to ascend the limbs easily, even with one arm occupied with holding his charge. He disappeared from sight, shielding them by nestling into the shadow of the great tree, close to the trunk. As an Elf, he naturally blended into this particular background.

He waited.

He soon heard them, though they attempted what they thought was the correct execution of a stealthy approach. Nine Orcs, closely followed by _eleven men_. These were not men that he had seen before, however, their garb of blacks and deep browns, clearly accustomed to shadow rather than light. Each was equipped with a bow and quiver, swords in lengthy scabbards at their thighs, daggers in their belts. They all progressed with searching the bodies of the fallen, none seemingly finding anything of interest, until the last of them entered the small clearing.

The horse was a dapple-grey, tall and proud under an equal master. Legolas observed this new arrival with some interest. He was different to the others; for one, he had a mount, something that the others did not possess. His hair was drawn back into a neat queue down the length of his neck, the light-brown locks oddly covering the ends of his ears. A trim beard lightly obscured a handsome, finely chiselled face. But it was the eyes that Legolas looked at the most. Light grey orbs, misty and cold in their harsh, quick glare. They surveyed the bloody scene before them with no emotion at all. Blank to the sorrow that filled this place. Merciless.

'Sir!' one of the men called, jerking the interest of Legolas over to him. The rider merely turned his head a little to the left in order to see the man, a slow blink bidding the other to speak.

Legolas felt his heart flutter in his chest when he realised that the man had drawn the attention of the other – as well as that of the Orcs - to Diyrenë's lifeless form, nudging her disrespectfully with the toe of his boot. Legolas felt a hot flush of rage pass though him at the insult – and was surprised and a little startled when the rider turned back around at the moment of his anger. The Elf held his breath, wondering at this action. Had it been a mere coincidence that he turned at that point? Or was there more to it?

The rider left his horse, crossing the distance to the dead woman with a brisk, purposeful gait. An Orc bent down, dipping a finger into the bloodied snow and afterbirth, sniffing it and then licking it. Legolas nearly heaved at the action, and the fight to keep his grasp on his composure was near lost.

'Here is the evidence, my Lord,' the Orc informed the man in his brutal, guttural accent.

'I do not want the evidence,' the man said with annoyance. 'I want the baby!' He inspected the area himself, muttering as he looked… 'Babies do not get up and walk away. Someone has it-' He stopped, taking in a deep breath through his nose, lifting some of the trampled snow to it. A knowing gleam came to his eyes, and he offered the closest Orc to him the substance to sniff at.

'Elf!' the creature concluded.

'Elf,' the man confirmed, his soft, almost melodic voice laced with a hatred so strong Legolas nearly shied from it. 'Well. I thought this was going to be a boring mission – but it appears that I was wrong with that assumption.'

_How can he know?_Legolas asked himself, feeling barely controlled panic rise again in the pits of his stomach. _How can he smell me? Men have not the capability of such a thing!_

'What do you wish for us to do about it, Gwareth?'

The man addressed as Gwareth gyrated, his face cold and impassive as he stared at the soldier, making the other avert his gaze to the churned snow. None present expected the fist to snake out from his side and strike the face of the already submissive man, nor did they expect the raging bellow that erupted into the night…

'YOU CALL ME _SIR_, OR _MY LORD_, INGRATE!'

Legolas inhaled sharply at the brutality of the attack on the man, as a sharp kick was administered to chest of the soldier – but the foot stopped, the head of Gwareth slightly inclined to the left, as though listening intently to the silence. Legolas felt his breath catch in his chest, the sudden feeling that he was being listened for, looked for, clasping him in its fearful grasp.

The darkness lay in deep folds about the trees that surrounded them so intimately, casting its black cloak over the scene and tucking it into the folds and crags of the ancient boughs. All but the sharpest eyes were blind in the blackness. But _he_ was not. Gwareth's half-Elven heritage gave him finer senses than any other being of mortal line; sight, smell, hearing – they were gifted to him in all their entirety. _Just like an Elf._ He inwardly recoiled from the thought of being anything like that filthy race that he despised so intensely. And so he penetrated the black with a piercing gaze … and he made it out. A shape against the trunk, perfectly still, as though formed out of the wood itself. It was both attached and singular from the living structure, making it – to an untrained eye – invisible. But his eye was not so stupid as to miss this shape for what it was, and the arrow sliced through the air with the grace of lightening, the distances and angles gauged faster than any could blink.

Legolas propelled himself out of the way, fleeting out of the line of the projectile, an achievement that only one of the Firstborn would be able to attain – but the miss of the arrow was narrow, the tip ripping past his ear by just a fraction, embedding itself deep into the live wood of the tree behind him.

'DO NOT LET HIM GO!' Gwareth bellowed into the night air, so livid with the failure of his aim that he kicked out at the soldier at his feet who failed to get out of the snow fast enough. He mounted his great horse again, the reins hanging free, his hands occupied with bow and arrow, administering a sharp dig of his heals to get the beast to move. In all truth, the soldiers had little idea as to what they were supposed to be preventing from escape, but the fear Gwareth drove into them made them scamper in the direction they knew the arrow had been fired in, all silently praying to Ilúvatar that they would see whatever they were charged with trapping.

The Orcs, however, knew better, smelling Elf on the air at the base of the tree. They became mad with excitement, practically obsessed with the fact that Elf flesh was within their grasp. They had plenty of man flesh in this place, but Elf was a rarity for them.

Legolas' feet sprang nimbly from branch to branch, the trees serving him as a veritable road along which he ran, giving him momentum to leap agilely despite the bundle that he clenched so tightly to his chest.

_They will not have you, I will _not_ permit them to take you like they took your mother._

Arathorn seemed totally impervious to the frantic movements of his guardian, sleeping peacefully in his state of ignorant bliss, wrapped in the fine security of the thick cloak. But it was only a cloak, Legolas knew, the material thin despite its density, the security thinner: it would never stop the biting tip of an arrowhead. That was why he shielded the bundle so tightly, lest they should be shot at with a lucky shaft; at least it would only wound him, leaving the baby unscathed – until they caught up, that was…


	7. Chapter Seven: On the Wings of Birds

Chapter Seven: On the Wings of Birds

This was an outrage. He could not believe this was happening to him. No, actually: he _could_ believe it was happening to him. He swore with his anger as he watched the fools he had been lumbered with flit around like headless chickens. They had no idea as to what they looked for, what they were meant to be chasing and bringing down from the treetops. It was _winter_, for crying out loud, and they still could not see what so clearly stood out to him.

The Orcs, on the other hand, were far better – they could detect where the Elf was with their noses, and the scent of a newborn baby was like practically laying down a trail of fresh blood for hounds to follow. They scrambled at the bowls of trees, agitated by the smells coming to them from above that they were unable to reach.

His horse pounded the snowy ground with his hooves, guided by the push of Gwareth's knees on his ribs. Gwareth himself was searching the great branches above them, his eyes piercing the night like dagger points. His eyes had lost the Elf for a second, the shadows of the Mirkwood trees seemingly swallowing their Elven counterpart in a protective shroud. His frustration mounted another few tall steps as he scoured the canopy until he thought he would scream – but then the trees apparently relinquished their loving embrace of the Elf, and Gwareth found himself staring straight into the eyes of the Elf, who was momentarily pausing. There was desperation in those eyes, a taint of fear as tangible as blood on the tongue in the youthful face. He was panicked by his situation, that much was clear. Gwareth held no doubt that, if it were not for the baby, the Elf could have escaped long ago – or, at least, gone further than he currently had.

The stare did not last, however, as the Elf bolted suddenly in the opposite direction, still shielding the child. Gwareth allowed himself to be temporarily amazed that someone could run through a tree as though they ran a road, but let that moment slip by like a twig caught in the motion of a waterfall. His bow raised, but the trunks of multiple trees stood in the way as the Elf darted through them. Better to not shoot at all than to appear sloppy and hit nothing but wood. He spurred his horse on, bellowing a hunting cry to the pitiful creatures that were his men and pointing to the fleeing Elf with the head of his bow. Finally they saw what they pursued and gave cries of their own, taking off with just discovered vigour and enthusiasm.

Legolas clutched Arathorn to his breast all the tighter for what he just witnessed. His head reeled from the stare he had just shared with his hunter. Never before had he seen such malice and concentrated hate in the eyes - in the _soul_ - of another being. It burned with its intensity, and he could still see the pure triumph that had radiated from the grinning face in his mind. _You will both die,_ the eyes had promised him. A simple message, but one that Legolas found incredibly unnerving…

He did not think about where he was taking them. Blind panic was now completely blotting out any sense of coherent thought that he might be able to rouse in his head. They had nowhere to go. This was one of the few areas of the forest that he was not at all familiar with, and he had not a single clue as to where he was taking them…

The Elf's heart pounded at his ribcage as his feet flew from branch to branch, ever aware of the hunting party below him, the Orcs giving gleeful hunting cries as they scurried between the boughs. Arrows ascended into the night sky, none of them finding their mark – but they were getting closer. Legolas chanced a glance behind and below him, and his heart leapt into his mouth as he realised how close they were to him … particularly their commander, who held his bow artfully, waiting for the opportunity to strike… But the man stopped his horse, and both Orc and Man halted by his side. It was only when Legolas turned to see why they had stopped that he realised that he was about to run right off a cliff. His feet skidded on the frosty bark, and a hand shot out to grasp a neighbouring branch to save himself from a disastrous fall. There were no more trees to run through: all that lay before him was a steep cliff face, with a drop that was easily fifty feet into dense shrub and more trees. When he had recovered his balance, Legolas looked down with mingled fear and horror at his would-be assassin, to be greeted by chorus of mocking laughter.

'What troubles you, Elf? A little less confidant with nowhere else to run?'

'Upon my life,' Legolas retorted, fury trembling in his tone, 'you will have neither this child nor me.'

The man called Gwareth laughed heartily at this statement, reaching to his back to draw another arrow. 'And how, pray tell, are you going to stop me?'

He raised his bow, and Legolas looked straight down the shaft that was destined to bring his fall…

The arrowhead sliced through the air, straight for Legolas's chest…

_NO!_

He moved just in time – but not quite fast enough. The blade of the projectile clipped his shoulder, sending burning fire through the entire limb. The shock of the pain made his course as he jumped go asunder, and he landed, not on the strong, higher branch slightly above and across from where he already was, but heavily upon the dead and rotting one below his target, silver with age and death. With the sudden force of his impact, there came an ear-splitting snapping, and, though he tried to jump to safety, the branch was already plummeting down the cliff face, taking its breaker down with it.


	8. Chapter Eight: The House in the Snow

Ok. It's a reeeeally long time since I last submitted a chapter to this story, I know, but please don't throw too many tomatoes my way. I don't like them, remember?

Kind of to make up for the lack of posting, this chapter is fairly long, which should make some people a little happier with me ducks behind the desk to avoid rotting tomatoes. Love me? Please? The writing is flowing pretty well now, and I have kind of had very little time for writing in the past few months, hence this long over-due post. Enjoy it, review it, and throw electronic tomatoes at the desk if you so wish...

P.S.

The next chapter is already underway, and promises to be rather exciting - well, _potentially_ exciting, we shall see! You'll have to tell me when I post it...

My God, it's been so long I've practically forgotten how to post on here! It's taking me a while to figure it out...

Chapter Eight: The House in the Snow

His body collided viciously with the rock face, freezing stone and brittle twigs tearing at his tumbling form. But, as Legolas succumbed to the beating of his lifetime, all he could think of was protecting the baby – rather then reaching out to try and grab something, he allowed the earth to pull him down, while curling into a tight, protective ball around Arathorn, using his own flesh and bone as a shield. It hurt, by the Valar it was painful, but not once did Legolas consider unravelling himself.

The hard rock face that battered his back swiftly became covered in dense shrub, the brittle branches and twigs ripping at his clothes and skin. The gradient of the slope also started to lessen, and Legolas found himself rolling as opposed to falling – although, this was not much better for him; it seemed that every trunk and boulder was making it its business to be in the way of his descent and he found it near impossible to stifle the grunts and gasps of pain as Nature further punished his body.

Finally, he rolled onto what felt like very rough but level ground, his mind in a fog with the pain. He was dimly aware that there were voices shouting several feet above him, and the crying of a baby. Over the haze, some distant part of him informed him that he aught to listen to what they said, because it would be important to know and understand the actions of the others…

'I cannot see him, my Lord!'

'Perhaps he is dead!'

Gwareth rubbed his face with a gloved hand, trying very hard – and failing – to curb his anger. He would be so much better without this crowd of ingrates swarming around him, he knew he would. 'Of course he is _not dead_, you idiots! Can you not _tell_ that he lives?'

When there was no reply from his men, Gwareth's irritation increased. 'You!' he snapped, pointing at the young man who was such a scholar in Elven history. 'Lead the force down that cliff and recover the baby! I hear it screaming. The Elf may not be dead, but I deem he would have trouble getting up and running off with the headache he must have now.'

But the young man merely stood there, glancing nervously at Gwareth and then at the cliff, wringing his hands, his eyes wide with fear. 'I – I cannot do that, my Lord…'

He spurred his horse over to the edge of the cliff, looking down at the young man with those cold eyes. 'Oh, really?' he asked in a dangerously soft voice. 'And why is that?'

The young man now looked terrified; his face had turned ashen in the pallid light of the snow. 'There are not any footholds in the rock, my Lord.'

He had never felt the urge to throw someone over a cliff so strongly in all his life. However, opposing the desire rather well, Gwareth set to riding over to an Orc that was shuffling about the cliff edge where the Elf had taken his fall; it was licking energetically at a spot of blood – doubtlessly from the Elf's shoulder that Gwareth's arrow had managed to graze – and was paying no attention to the man approaching him on the horse. Gwareth drew up beside the foul beast, and placed a well-aimed kick in its stomach. The Orc, taken completely by surprise, was sent flying over the precipice, emitting a sharp howl before a sickening smack finished the cry abruptly.

_After all,_ Gwareth thought smugly to himself, _that wasn't some_one_, it was some_thing.

'Do any here wish to follow the Orc in the same manner?'

There were many shuffling feet, and a murmured 'No, my Lord' rumbled in the chill air, even from the Orcs.

'Good. Do any here know the nearest path down from this annoying cliff?'

One man stepped forth, saluting Gwareth sharply. 'Yes, my Lord: a league from this point, there is a path to the road below.'

'Very good: onward!' Gwareth spurred his horse, and the men about him were forced to mount their own beasts with clumsy haste.

Gwareth had already heard the steady plod of an ox pulling a heavy cart along the dirt track below, and he grinned evilly to himself. _This game is about to become very interesting._

The first thing he was aware of was how much he ached. His back, head, ribs, everything, seemed to be fiercely burning, his muscles like a horde of angry workers, shouting their protest at his brain all at once. But then he became aware of the warmth, and the fact that he was lying on something soft puzzled him. There was a heavy scent of baking bread, and the clinking of pots.

This was confusing. How had he come to be here? He had no idea. But then the crying of a baby reached him, and everything flooded back in great waves, swamping him in unwholesome detail.

'Arathorn!' Legolas shot bolt upright in his panic. His head pounded horribly, though he paid it no attention. His eyes searched the room he was in frantically, until they rested upon an elderly, portly woman with a kind face, bobbing the baby up and down in her arms.

'Here he is, look,' she cooed. 'Daddy's woken up!'

Legolas heaved himself stiffly up from the made-up cot and hastily crossed to the old woman. She handed the baby over happily enough, a placid smile gracing her lips as she watched Legolas check Arathorn for any hurt that may have been sustained in the fall. After being in Legolas's hands for a few moments, the screams stopped as the Elf fussed over the tiny form.

'Praise the Valar, it's stopped!' growled the voice of an old man. Legolas turned to see him sitting in a corner of the tiny house, eyeing Legolas with great suspicion. There was a dagger resting on his knee.

'Don't be rude, you old goat!' spat the woman. 'The babe wanted his father, is all.'

'I'm not his father,' Legolas supplied quickly, though he doubted he was heard, for the woman was bustling about the small kitchen, slicing a hot loaf and talking loudly to him…

'You've had a nasty fall, dear, very nasty indeed, it's a wonder you're not dead; if we hadn't seen you on the road like we did and fetched you in, I don't want to think about what could have to you and the babe. Wolves prowling, Orcs scavenging and picking off any poor creature they find, Trolls afoot after dark; any of 'em would have finished you for sure, I'll tell you that. Now, I've patched you up good and proper, so you've no need to worry about scratches and bumps. Leave the scabs be and you won't have any scarring, I'll warrant, though there's a bit of a gash on your forehead that could leave a mark, but you'll be back to rights soon enough. However, that babe of yours is another matter entirely-'

'-He is? Why? What's wrong with him?'

She chuckled at his concern. 'Nothing _now_, dear, but you should know better than to come out into the cold with a new-born and not wrap him up properly: poor mite was shiverin' away when we found you. I've given you extra blankets and a couple of skins to wrap him up in.'

Legolas did not know what to say. Complete strangers had scraped him up, brought him to their house, and tended to both him and Arathorn with complete generosity and goodwill. Well, goodwill from the lady, at least … Legolas could feel the distrust and suspicion radiating from the man in the corner like heat from a fire.

'Now, have some of this bread, my dear, get your strength up a bit.'

The man in the corner finally rose, advancing on Legolas with the dagger in his fist. It was not raised, but still was a tangible enough threat. 'You oughtn't to give him anything, Winnera,' he stated, jabbing a finger at Legolas accusingly.

'Oh, Wren, don't be a daft old fool! Why ever not? He's not done anything!'

'No! So he mightn't, but that doesn't mean to say that he _won't_, does it? You don't know who he is, or what he's doing here, or why on _earth_ he has a new-born babe with him! Where's its mother? Lying murdered in the snow, I'll warrant, with one of his arrows sticking out of her back!'

Legolas paled at this. This Wren man had no idea how close he was to the truth…

'Of course that's not true!' Winnera retorted defiantly.

'You don't even know his name!' Wren shouted. Then he turned on Legolas like an angered boar. 'Well?' he snapped. 'You got a name or what? Coming into our house without so much as a nod of thanks! At least give my wife a name!'

_Ai, Eru! A name!_ Telling them his name was Legolas was not an option, but he had not even thought about what he would say when confronted about his identity … there was something about running for your life that made you forget such things as whom you could pretend to be.

'Well?' Wren pushed aggressively. 'Not got one or something? Nothing shiftier than an Elf with no name, I'll tell you that! Should shout to the next horsemen who pass to take you away-'

'Baerahir. My name is Baerahir.' Legolas flinched slightly at what he had done. It was like he had stolen something, something precious and wholesome and pure, and he had just marred it completely. His father would not speak of Baerahir, no-one did: the elder Mirkwood prince, by far the greater of the pair, revered by his father and subjects, and now lost to the Dead Marshes…

'Baerahir? Wasn't that the name of one of the Mirkwood princes…?'

'I'm named after him,' Legolas interjected hastily, cringing inwardly at his own words.

'I see,' said Wren, though he did not look like he believed a word. 'You a Mirkwood Elf?'

'Yes.' No sense in lying about that one.

'One of their soldier boys?'

Again, 'Yes.'

Wren threw up his arms as though he had just been proven right. 'There! He's a soldier boy! Knew it! Can't trust any the one of 'em!'

Winnera's face twisted from kindly to furious. 'Wren, I swear, if you don't give up you shall be sleeping with the oxen, _at their rears_!'

Wren seemed to take heed of her words for a moment at least; he huffed at her, his face working furiously in contorted sneers. He finally stalked off back to his chair, muttering about women and their insufferable trusting ways. Legolas could feel his eyes making a sound attempt at burning a hole through his neck as Wren said: 'He still hasn't said what he's doing with a small babe with no mother.'

Wren's pressing need for information on "Baerahir" was becoming dangerous, and if an satisfactory explanation was not supplied, Legolas had a fair notion of what the old man planned to do with that dagger; from the way he twisted it artfully between his fingers, the Elf had to assume he had a rather sure idea of how to use it. Legolas finally conceded to tell his story – or, at least, a small fabrication of it...

'I was travelling with a troupe of Rangers,' he explained, keeping his tone as level as he was able. 'We were only of a small number – seven in total – on our way to the Ranger settlement to the south. They had been guests of my King, and I was ordered by the Prince to escort them through Mirkwood and see them safely to the boarder.

'In the southern stretch, we were hounded by Orcs of the Dark Tower. We could not shake them, and our attempts to flee were hindered by the storm, and we were forced into combat. There were too many of them, and we were overwhelmed…' he faltered. Flashes of the night danced cruelly before him, images of evil and good vying for supremacy as black blades clashed with the frightened screams of the maids. The blood of innocents spilt, Cirnan and the other Rangers … Diyrenë and her orphaned son…

'I was able to save the baby and run, and even then we barely escaped on foot.'

Winnera's brow creased as she stared at him pityingly, her eyes glassy and completely believing. Orc attacks were common, everyone knew they were; practically everyone knew of someone who had fallen foul of them and never been seen again. And Legolas' slight adaptation of the truth in which he had managed to order himself to escort the Rangers out of the forest was not entirely untrue, either: he organised escorting as a specific duty when the Mirkwood kingdom had guests, though the task fell to usually five warriors, not on one Elf. People on the outside of the forest knew of this service, as it tended to be the only time that they ever saw an Elf these days. Once the Rangers had actually sent an amused letter to Legolas, telling him of a group of travellers who had witnessed the Elves stopping at the boarder and appearing to eject the Rangers from their land. They ran to the Rangers, asking them if they had been held captive and only just released, clearly having taken in their poor garb, to which the Rangers replied with great amusement no, they had merely been seen to the boarder, a service afforded to guests of the king.

'I don't believe it,' Wren stated flatly.

'It is the truth,' Legolas countered levelly. 'I vowed to this child's dying mother that I would take him back to his village, and that is what I shall do.'

Somewhere outside, a twig snapped. Neither Winnera nor her opinionated husband heard it, but Legolas did. He spun round, staring at the window as though in the expectation of seeing his hunter looking in, grinning in cold triumph. There was actually no-one there, but Wren rose to his feet rather suddenly, causing Legolas to fix him with a wary eye.

'You. With me. Now.' His face – as Legolas had come to expect from this man – held its usual negative, unpleasant snarl. But there was something else in it, something that Legolas found greatly worrying: anger.

'Wren? What-'

'-Quiet, woman! Boy, I said with me!'

Legolas handed Winnera the baby, carefully steeling his face against the concern he truly felt and settling for politely puzzled. Was this man going to try to get rid of him on a rather permanent basis? He hoped not: if the negative feeling in his gut was true, and Wren was taking him outside to dispose of him without his wife baring witness to it, he would have to act in his own defence. Arathorn's life depended on it, and Legolas knew that his own prowess with a blade would be far superior to Wren's. He had no wish to harm the man, but _if_ he tried anything, he would have no choice: three thousand years of combat experience would go against an old man with a dagger in his hands. No matter which way he looked at it, Legolas was a highly efficient weapon, a deadly tool trained to kill, and anyone fool enough to challenge his abilities would fall foul of his skills.

They exited the building into the cold night air, its freezing fingers folding about them instantly. Wren shivered and drew his cloak about him, casting Legolas a scathing glare as the Elf barely flinched, despite having only his shirt on his back. When they were clear of the door and his wife's earshot, Wren turned on Legolas sharply, his expression a furious twist where his face should have been. 'Who are you running from?'

'I'm not-'

'_No_!' snapped Wren firmly, pointing his finger in the other's chest and shaking his head in a slow, deliberate manner. '_Don't_ you lie to me like you lied to my wife in there! Don't you _dare_! For someone that was jumped by Orcs, you're very nervy. You're _expecting _someone to come and get you. So I ask again: _who are you running from_?'

Legolas blinked, snow melting on his skin and trickling down his face. He cast his eyes about the small property, making a sharp analysis in a blink that his blood allowed him to do. A fox was the only creature to have disturbed the snow, nothing more. There were trees, but they were scarce and scrawny, not even capable of hiding a mouse in their nakedness, never mind a man. All that greeted his ears was the wind's vicious howl and the trees shuddering in its wake.

The dagger was not yet raised at him, though it remained in Wren's fist as though it was his only possession.

Legolas sighed, finally relenting. He had to leave these people, he had to go now, and this man was determinedly hindering him. 'You're right. I am running. And before you say anything,' Legolas said loudly, seeing Wren opening his mouth, 'I have committed no wrong: it is the child that they chase. Had you and your wife not picked us from the road, we would both be dead.'

'You are being hunted for the _baby_?'

'Yes.'

'You've brought danger to my house, to my _wife_,' Wren sneered. 'I want you gone from my house, right now, you and the pup. If I give you a horse, will you leave?'

_A horse?_ Legolas could hardly believe it. 'But I can't take your-'

'-Believe me, you can: he's a bloody nuisance. I'll be glad to see the backs of the pair of you.' Wren turned back into the house, indicating to Legolas to stay, and he emerged seconds later with a lantern burning merrily in his hand. 'Follow me.'

They passed round the back of the house, Wren leading the way and Legolas avoiding looking at the lantern lest it should impair his night vision, for round here there were more trees and bushes, heavily shrouded in dense cloaks of darkness.

The storm, having slowed a little, decided that it was not quite done with the world, and the flakes became far larger, falling faster and thicker, the heavens now seeming to be bestowing sheets of white upon them all too generously. The wind picked up as well, ripping at their clothes with merciless glee, snaking its way through every parting in their cloth to bite with icy zeal at the flesh beneath. It was a truly wretched night to have to flee for one's life in…

The lantern the old man carried was of little use to them, as the wind was trying its hardest to rip it from his hands. However, as Wren refused to relinquish his grasp, the wind seemed to have decided that, if it could not have their lantern, it would throw the light so badly about their path that they might as well not have a lantern at all.

Contrary to the cruel wishes of the weather, they finally made it to the barn; Legolas could just see a dark shaped mass framed by white. It looked rickety and rather leaky, and the door rattled in the gale. The old man came to a halt outside the door, holding the lantern up to his face and looking pointedly at Legolas. 'In there,' he growled over the wind, throwing his head in the direction of the barn door. Legolas watched him with an unsure eye, hesitating with his hand resting on the warped wood. 'Are you not coming in out of the storm?' He tried to add some level of appeal to his tone – anything to make the old man go in and face the horror within with him.

But he shook his head, a cruel grin deepening the creases in his aging face. 'Nope; you want it, you can go and get it.'

_He really does hate me_, Legolas thought as he tugged back the weighty bolt, swinging the door open tentatively.

He was greeted by darkness of such a deep pitch that it put the stormy night to shame. It was warmer in here, yet the air was filled with the smell of dampness and oxen. It was not like any barn Legolas had ever entered; he remembered sleeping in the stalls with the horses when he was a young boy, right between the front legs of his father's protective charger. In here, he would never have dared.

And there was something else in here despite old hay and cattle … something that he could feel watching him, daring him to step closer; a hoof stamped with heavy threat, and he heard the swish of a whip-like tail…

Legolas gave a shout and leapt back, just as a great black beast launched itself at him, materialising out of the darkness like some kind of half-formed nightmare. He fell back against the doorframe, shock temporarily elevating the speed of his heart

Wren finally stepped into the doorway, grinning toothily at the look on Legolas' face. The lantern calmed in the shelter of the stable, and Legolas saw his attacker in the half-light. A horse of pitch black had its head lowered threateningly over the chain barring it in its stall. The magnificent head tossed from side to side, the ears back and lips drawn to show its teeth. It neighed harshly, stamping a hoof in an intimidating manner.

'Had a feeling he'd do that.'

'I bet you did,' Legolas replied tersely, not amused by this dangerous trick, or indeed by the old man's sniggering tone. Then: 'Does he have a name?'

'Name's Blackie.'

'… Blackie…'

'Yes, Blackie! Are you simple or something?'

Legolas was very close to making a comment about originality and points for the least imaginative name ever given, but stayed his tongue. What good would it do him to make this man hate him even more?

'Got him off a feller on the road,' the old man began. 'Said I was needin' a new horse, seeing as the old one were twenty-odd years; didn' fancy his chances over the winter, not with the work I'd be givin' him. So this feller says to me, he says he's only off to market to get rid o' this one for a new horse himself. So I says we should trade, and I'm landed with this bugger!'

As if the horse knew that less than savoury things were being said of him, he snorted and reared, slamming his hooves back to the earth with a terrific thud.

'But,' Legolas began, a frown creasing his otherwise smooth forehead. 'will you not need this horse for the winter work?'

'Certainly not! Can't use the sod, won't work for me for love nor money! Got the oxen for his work now, and I be tellin' you, if you don't take him, I'll be getting him with an arrow next. Take him.'

Legolas stood and watched the horse for a minute. They had to be fast; Gwareth would surely be close by now, and with this storm carrying on the way it was, the snow would cover their tracks fantastically. Blackie watched him right back, and Legolas was momentarily studded by the sheer intelligence in the horses eyes … he had never known an animal look _right at him_ it that way; it was as though the horse was challenging his presence in _his_ barn, waiting for Legolas to make a move.

Legolas clicked his tongue.

The horse flicked an ear in an unimpressed manner, snorting dryly and tossing his head. He began to rock, shifting his weight about the stall and deliberately banging into the sides, making the old wood groan under the force.

'Pack that in, you bugger!'

Blackie merely neighed shrilly, stomping and whinnying, as though in response to what Wren was saying. They clearly had a sour relationship, and Legolas would not have been surprised if the horse had turned around and called Wren a bugger right back.

He tried a new tactic. Advancing slowly, he sang in a low, soft tone of his own tongue, barely audible over the stress of the wooden walls and Blackie's insistent neighing. But Blackie did hear it: he quietened a little, before coming to a complete stop, watching Legolas again with both eyes, his flickering ears now still and forward, listening attentively. Legolas did not stop singing as he unhooked the chain fencing the horse in and went to stand by his strong neck, smoothing the stallion's face and muzzle with one hand as he gestured to Wren to give him the bridle. Wren complied, his mouth slightly agape as he passed the ancient bridle over. It was clearly an alien concept to him that an Elf would be able to quieten his vicious, fiery stallion by _singing _to him.

The bridle on, the Elf continued to sing his calming song as he lead Blackie out of his stall by the rein, quiet as a lamb. When it came to passing Wren, however, Blackie made a quick attempt at biting the old man's shoulder. Legolas checked him, however, giving a chastising tug on the bit and a sharp noise in his throat. The horse raised his head, as though incredulous that the Elf had stopped him, but then conceded to being lead into the freezing night air with his new owner.


	9. Chapter Nine: Blackie

Chapter Nine: Blackie

'Will you _pack it in_, damn you!'

Blackie plunged against Wren's grip of the rein, pulling the old man jerkily through the snow and forcing him into quite comical pirouettes as Wren tried – and failed miserably – to fit the aging saddle to the animal's back. Blackie neighed loudly, tossing his head up and down as though in amusement.

_He's laughing_, Legolas could not help thinking. _The horse is actually _mocking_ you!_ To say that a horse mocked a man would be a ludicrous imagining, one which would have been deemed insane by any who heard it second-hand. But Legolas was forced to think if anyone else was watching this with him, they would definitely concede that yes, the horse was laughing.

Legolas had reluctantly agreed to the saddle. Though Wren had been loath to give it away anyway, Winnera insisted that it would be far easier and safer to ride with a saddle; she had put together several packages of food for him, even managing to produce water pouches of milk for the baby. 'Now then,' she had said to him, raising her brow and forming her mouth into a flat line like a matron, 'be sure to get to this village of yours quick, because this cow's milk's too hard on his little tummy, though it'll keep him for a bit. And be sure that it's warm when you give it to him, mind, he can't have it cold; don't make it too hot, or you'll burn his little mouth! Test it on the back of your hand, just to be sure of it.'

She did not stop there: Winnera had put together a whole feast for him in two leather saddle bags, giving him cheese and travelling cakes, seed cake and dried meats, complete with a loaf of bread and a couple of water pouches containing nothing more adventurous than water. The small Elfling in Legolas silently wished for milk to be in _his_ pouches as well, but was swiftly quashed by the far more grateful and mature version.

'I don't know how to thank you,' Legolas said awkwardly as Winnera handed him the heavy sacks, the cold wind seeming to do nothing to her matriarchal posture despite all of its battering, the snow flecking her dark grey hair with white.

'Well,' she replied, smiling at him warmly, like a mother to her son who is embarking on a long journey, 'it's my thanks to you, really.' When he furrowed his brow in confusion, she added: 'When I was a young lass, you and a company of soldiers rode through my village on your way to somewhere in the south. Men were not so suspicious of Elves in those days, and they hadn't forgotten your sacrifices in the War, and you were welcomed to stay for a time.' She smiled at the recollection, and at Legolas' expression as she told her tale.

'You were leading them, I remember, on a great grey horse with no saddle or reins. My father told me that was how the Elves rode, that they did not need such things because they understood their horses in a way that Men cannot understand. I told him I wanted to ride a great horse like that, and even though you were across the street, you heard me, and you spoke to my father and he sat me in front of you on your great war horse, and we galloped out and round the lanes. I was the envy of all the children that day and for many days after…' her smile broadened as her eyes became distant. 'All of the other children used to call me names and throw stones at me. Not after Prince Legolas let _me_ ride on his horse, never again.'

Legolas was at a loss for what to say. He remembered that day all those years ago – well, to Winnera, sixty-two years would be termed as "all those years ago"; to Legolas, it was little more than a raindrop to a river. She was right, that had been a time when the efforts of the Elves were still remembered by most, and he had to wonder what had happened in the past sixty or so years to change that. He could still hear her shrieks of joy as they galloped through the village.

'When did you realise it was me?' he asked quietly. All pretence of him being Baerahir could be dropped now, and he gave his brother's borrowed name back more than happily, settling for his own willingly now that he was discovered.

'Oh, long ago, my dear,' she said kindly. 'When we picked you up on the roadside I knew who you were. I may be old, but I don't forget things as easily as my husband does.'

Legolas shook his head slowly. Shame crept about his chest and to the tip of his tongue. 'Winnera, look, I'm sorry I lied to you, I-'

'-No,' she said flatly, holding her hand up to silence him. 'I don't need an explanation. You were protecting yourself and the baby, and I completely understand that.' She took his forearm gently, making him look her in the eye. 'And do not feel ashamed at using your brother's name tonight. You did not do it out of disrespect, but of love for him. He knows that. You need feel no shame in yourself for it.'

He smiled weakly at her, only wishing he could dispense of this horrible guilt as easily as she thought he should.

Blackie gave a particularly loud neigh, rearing up and nearly lifting Wren from his feet. '_Damn you_!' the old man barked. 'Elf, you going to ride this balrog away or not?'

Winnera left him in the snow for a moment, rushing back into the house. She emerged seconds later a little more sedately, carrying a bundle carefully in her arms. Arathorn was wrapped in more pelts than Legolas was sure he had ever owned, his tiny face barely visible through the folds of soft fur. 'Here we are,' the old woman said softly, showing the Elf the bedding she had made. The entire package was wrapped in a linen sling, which would leave the Elf free to use his arms whilst riding. For a moment, he even envied the tiny body in the warm furs … what he would have given to be so comfortable and content while another toiled! But that was not the way of the world, and he carefully took the baby into his own arms. For some reason, he relaxed a little, feeling the warm weight of the baby comforting to his spirit. They had a difficult time ahead of them, of course they did, but Legolas felt somehow more complete with the baby back fully in his care.

As the Elf approached, Blackie became distracted from his tormenting of Wren; his ears flickered attentively as he regarded the other, though he still shifted. He gave a soft whinny as Legolas reached his head, and before either Wren or Winnera could protest, Legolas offered Arathorn to the beast. Blackie paused for a moment, and then stretched out his long neck to sniff at the furs, taking long deep pulls at the air. Wren made a move to protest, but Legolas silenced him with a quiet shake of his head. When the stallion had finished, Legolas mounted, carefully placing the sling over his shoulder so that Arathorn was nestled in his chest. The horse never even flinched, his feet remaining firmly planted. All he did was look at his back at the baby for a moment, and then put his head forward, not even thinking about biting Wren, who was standing dumb-founded with the reins still in his hand.

The saddlebags were buckled on, and they were ready to go, Blackie standing perfectly awaiting the command to set off. Legolas looked down at the couple who had, even if it had been a little reluctantly, saved their lives. 'Thank you both for what you have done for us,' he said. 'Truly.'

Winnera beamed up at him. 'Bless you both, dear. And be careful.'

Legolas glanced at Wren. The old man's face was unreadable. But he gave a small nod, which Legolas returned, a little surprised at the potential acceptance. Legolas shifted again in the saddle he found so uncomfortable and clicked his teeth. Blackie sprang forward obediently, and they cantered from the couple who had done so much for them into the swirling storm's embrace.

Visibility was practically non-existent. The snow heaved mockingly before the eyes of horse and rider, and they both found it impossible to visually see where they were trying to go. Fortunately, Blackie had some evident knowledge of where he was going, and took them up a steep incline, labouring against his load and the gradient of the slope. He did not relent though, and stopped only when he heaved himself to the top – evidently he had not been out that much of late, and Legolas could not say he was too surprised by this fact, considering the hateful relationship between horse and man.

Legolas stopped the horse for a minute to allow him a brief rest when the direction of the wind changed completely and the snow eased so dramatically he was stunned by it. The finally flurries swirled energetically about them, as though resisting the pull of the earth … but they carried with them a chilling sound. Legolas froze in horror. Horses neighing shrilly into the night, and the sound coming directly from whence they had come. Fear closed his throat, its fingers wrapping too tightly for him to breath. _Ai Elbereth no, please no!_

* * *

Fragments of pot crunched beneath his boot as he wandered through the house, casually observing the broken shelving and ruined furniture. They seemed to have had many things for folk of such a meek existence. Well, they still _did_ technically have many things; the said things were simply in bits now. 

'I have been in your barn, I have been in your hou- hut,' Gwareth affirmed steadily in a tone that indicated that he was not particularly bothered as he continued to pace. He picked up the fresh loaf of bread from the floor and ripped a chunk out of it. 'I know he was here, the entire sad little affair _reeks _of him. But what I cannot seem to ascertain is exactly _where he is_. I was wondering if you might be so glad as to help me this time, seeing as you were so reluctant last time, hum?'

Winnera's arms screamed painfully at her as the man at her back pulled on them to force her into an answer. She glanced to her husband. Wren's face was filled with pure terror, his eyes hardly daring to fix on anything.

'I don't know who you're talking about-'

Gwareth flung the uneaten loaf to the corner violently and slammed his dagger into the floor inches from the terrified woman's face.

'No! Wrong answer! Try again!'

He had been in the barn and seen the stall. He had even nearly stepped in the horse dung. There had been a horse in there not more than an hour ago, the Elf was so close, he could feel it … but this was simply too much fun to give up and chase after the Elf, and besides, the snow had covered the tracks remarkably well, and he did need a general direction to go in.

The old woman had tears streaking her face, and she shook so violently Gwareth was amazed it did not make the whole house judder. But she stayed her tongue. What had the Elf done to gain such complete and utter loyalty?

'If you answer me, I may let you live.'

She seemed to be considering this as the shaking eased slightly. Then: 'What do you want with him? Baerahir is just a common Elf, no more.'

Gwareth laughed heartily at her words. 'Oh,' he chuckled, 'is he now? "Baerahir" is dead. _Legolas_, on the other hand, is alive and - unfortunately for you both – well!'

'I will tell you!' Wren blurted.

'Wren, no! You c-'

'-Quiet, woman! I won't have us killed for some Elf you've taken a shining to! He rode west not ten minutes ago. Said he was taking the brat he had with him to some village.'

Gwareth smiled. 'Thank you,' he said courteously.

With those words, he turned to the men holding Wren and gave a curt nod. A knife flashed. There was a sickening gurgling and the fruitless thrashing of limbs panicking and fighting for breath. Then stillness, horrible terrible stillness.

Winnera's scream of agony was an ear-splitting, heart-wrenching wail, and had Gwareth the heart to care, he would have. But he did not, and he simply stood and stared at her contemplatively for a minute or so, before claiming his knife from the floor and drawing his blade across her screeching neck. He wiped the reddened plains on her back before sheathing it at his belt.

'Burn it down,' he told the men in the room, ignoring the Orcs as they hovered in the background. 'The Elf is watching. I want him to see what has been done in his name.' As Gwareth set to walk out, the Orcs rushed past him to the bodies, a sickening eager light in their black eyes. He paused, staring at them for a moment as they squabbled between themselves over the fresh meat. 'And bar the door,' he added to one of his men. 'They make me nauseous.'

The man nodded his head to the assassin, and all left, closing the door silently behind them.

Gwareth stood straight in the freezing air, breathing it in deeply. The weather was clearing, the wind dropping a little. The smell of burning and alarmed shrieks of the Orcs filled the night. He did not look at the hut, but straight up a hill some way from the house. At the peak stood the silhouette of a horse with a man slumped on his back, perfectly still save for the wind that jostled his hair. He looked as though he was ill, the way his back was bent over.

The assassin held out his arms in the fierce glow of the fire, a mad smile on his face as his body flashed red and amber. 'DO YOU SEE THIS, ELF? DO YOU SEE WHAT YOU HAVE _DONE_?' The figure on the horse straightened suddenly and turned his mount, and the horse took flight out of sight.

Gwareth ran to his horse, mounting in one fluid leap. The dapple-grey reared and roared as his master kicked his sides, thrashing his legs. They hit the frozen earth with a thud and took off instantly. Gwareth was not willing to wait for the others; if they were too slow, then so be it, he did not want them with him anyway. They galloped through the scrub at break-neck speed, taking on the incline with all the ferocity of an angered balrog, the man standing in the irons to make it easier for the horse. This was the thrill, the part of the hunt he craved, the bit leading to the kill. He could hear the others behind him, straining their horses to catch up, but he refused to wait, there was no point in waiting and allowing him to get away. Fresh tracks marked his path for him and he followed them, leaning forward against his horse's plunging neck. 'Faster! _FASTER_!'

Blackie tore through the scanty scrub, his new master urging him frantically forward, raised slightly in the stirrups to ease the pressure on the stallion's back. Their flight was slowed by the icy ground and rocks that were so well concealed in snow, seen by nothing save the thundering hooves of a horse trying desperately not to trip on them at full pace.

Legolas controlled the reins with only one hand, his free arm braced protectively about the bundle at his chest. A numb disbelief blurred clear thought in his mind. He killed them, that man slew them in their house because they had helped him.

_DO YOU SEE THIS, ELF? DO YOU SEE WHAT YOU HAVE _DONE?

_They're dead because of me…_

_My fault._

The thought was crippling, and try as he might he could not shift it from the forefront of his mind. The guilt clenched him tightly, restricting his chest and making him pull for breath. Tears streaked his face as the wind whipped them into jarred angles right into his hair. But a thought emerged from the darkness, and it fought its way to his attention. _I will kill him. Once my duty is done, I will hunt him down and colour the snow with his lifeblood._ The snide observer in his head immediately voiced that Gwareth was doing rather a good job of hunting _him_ down at present, and it would be _his _lifeblood staining the earth soon, but Legolas blanked it. The thought steeled him against his guilt, and it became a burning fire in the pit of his stomach, fuelled by his furious ire. He had never felt the burn of such cold hatred…

They entered a small cluster of scrawny trees at a terrific speed. There was no pathway here, only what Blackie could pick out for himself, leaping any rocks that lay in the way. Legolas could hear his horse panting with the strain of maintaining his pace, and he could not quell the rising panic in his chest when Blackie began to slow. His great head sagged, saliva streaming in the form of white froth from his gaping mouth. He had been pushed too hard for a horse that had been stabled for so long, and Legolas was forced to remember that he was a farm animal, not a war charger.

It was not long before Gwareth's dapple grey could be heard behind them, the hoof-falls coming ever closer with each surging leap…

Legolas reined Blackie in sharply and changed direction. Through the trees he could see a pathway cut by animals to a steep incline. The track would more likely than not be slippery underfoot with ice and rock, but they had no other real option. Blackie obediently took the path down the slope, and Legolas scanned it sharply to see where he was taking them. It was a deep ravine, at the very pit of which churned a river whose flow was so fierce it could not be stilled by winter's might. The track they were on descended into the gully and levelled out into a wide pathway high above the water, but far below the level of the ground from whence they had come. Blackie staggered down the sheer gradient, snorting as his feet skidded on the frozen earth. Come the moment when they reached the flat rock, he gave a great leap down, as though exhilarated by the very idea of running on flat again. It was more sheltered here and there was far less snow, just a mere smattering, and Blackie seemed to find it easier to find purchase on its thin crisp surface.

Legolas cast a startled glance behind them at the clatter of hooves. Gwareth was directly behind them, gaining ground with alarming speed. The man drew a long, curved blade from its scabbard as his horse began to draw level with Blackie. Legolas could not use a bow, he was too restricted with the baby on his chest; the only weapons left open to him were his knives, and he drew one of them, emitting a sharp metallic ring as it emerged, the white blade gleaming in the darkness and its keen edge ready to bite.

As they finally levelled, Man and Elf glared at each other for a second, mad exhilaration on the face of one and pure execration on the other. Legolas' white knife sang as it arced into Gwareth's swipe, throwing it back at him with all the strength he could muster. The man was quick to recover, bringing his sword back in a sweeping motion for Legolas' neck. The Elf's hand shot from protecting Arathorn to the remaining hilt between his shoulders, bringing the blade up to deflect Gwareth's fatal blow a split second before it fell. The force of the impact forced him forward in the saddle, and he only just caught himself on Blackie's neck. While he was down for that slightest of seconds, Legolas saw something in the eye of his horse that he had never borne witness to before in an animal. It was complete and masterful cunning, raw intelligence echoing deep into the dark eye.

While their riders battled, an equally violent struggle happened beneath them. Blackie and Gwareth's grey battled for supremacy, throwing their legs out and straining violently to gain the lead … or, at least, the grey was. Blackie was sending the other horse straight down the path to ruin, running him flat-out against himself. The black stallion's mouth closed, still framed by the white froth, ears flat, and he watched the other with his one eye, waiting … until it happened. The grey's eyes rolled madly and his tongue finally lolled as he fought with himself to maintain the pace his master desired of him and the other horse had set. Blackie accelerated, finally giving all he was really capable of.

Legolas felt the change beneath his legs. Muscles bunched under him, exhibiting a true power that had not been seen by the Elf or anyone else beforehand. They shot forward, leaving a dismayed Gwareth behind on his ruined steed. It was like he rode a fresh horse, a racer, and Legolas could not stop the grin of pure elation spreading across his face. He could hear his hunter screaming at his horse, could hear the sword the man carried being used to beat the animal's rump to make him catch up. But it was not to be done, and the dapple grey fell further and further back in the throws of failure.

The joy of the Mirkwood Prince was short-lived. As they rounded a sharp bend in the track, a great wall of rock loomed ahead, at the base of which the path widened further, like a great hand had scooped the rock out of it to make a massive ledge. There was no path to follow any more, not unless they could defy the laws of Nature and gallop up the sheer rock face. The Elf reined the stallion in, gyrating him, trying to find a way out of this horrible predicament. But there was nothing open to him, nothing at all, and he finally stayed his horse facing the way they had come in, waiting with a nasty knot in his gut for Gwareth to come round and trap them in here for good. He held both weapons before him in defiance, ready. If it was here they were to finally clash, so be it…

They appeared seconds later, and not just Gwareth: his band had caught up, all of them flanking their leader with arrows notched. The man grinned evilly.

'And here we have it,' he toned quietly on his panting horse, 'the remaining Prince of Mirkwood trapped like an animal in a cage of his own choosing. The child shall be first to die; it will be the last thing you see as the blood drains from your own veins.'

Legolas' response was to brace his knives across his chest, a protective shield of deadly art. Arathorn began to voice his apparent grievance at the man's words. He cried, a course wail. Gwareth chuckled, staring at the Elf and babe from under his brows. He raised his own object of his craft.

'You try it,' Legolas hissed. 'Here I wait: you come to me. All of you. We shall see whose life the land drinks this night, and I tell you it will not be his.' For all his words and rock-like stance, Legolas felt true fear running through him. He could not defeat so many, not cornered like an animal with nowhere to run. The very bulk of the baby stopped him being able to extort his Elven agility, restricting him heavily in a fight where he needed _everything_ in order to be victorious. Even on his own, this would be doomed to be a difficult and potentially fatal battle, but at least he would have been free to take as many with him as possible.

Arathorn's cries became more deafening.

Blackie pawed at the rock. He started to nicker and throw his head back and forth as the noise became louder…

The men charged as one.

The stallion's nickering became a full bellowing roar. He reared up as Legolas braced himself for the last battle of his life. But, to his immense surprise, Blackie turned on his heel and bolted straight for the edge of the precipice. Panic ripped through his rider as they accelerated. At the other side lay a sure get away, as the opposite side of the ravine was level and treed with no towering wall of stone to pen them in … but it was way beyond anything any horse could ever leap, and the only thing that could possibly come of this was their end. They would plunge into the raging waters below, never to be seen again save as corpses washed up on the shore. He sheathed his white knives faster than he had ever drawn them and took up the reins, pulling back hard to stop their flight to certain death, but Blackie simply lifted his head up, galloping blind.

'Blackie! BLACKIE NO, _NO!_'

The stallion did not hearken to his panic-stricken screams, his muscles gathering like taut bows. The little amount of ground before them disappeared. It was going to happen, there was no turning back now, and the best thing Legolas could do in his thralls of his terror was to at least go to his death riding like a true horseman. He raised himself in the stirrups to allow the stallion the mobility to make the jump that was doomed to fail, laying his body flat against Blackie's neck and gripping Arathorn's still screaming form tighter to his chest, horror forcing his eyes to remain open.

It happened. Blackie's legs gathered tightly beneath his body and unfurled with a mighty kick. His long forelegs pointed gracefully before him, ears back in extreme effort as the men on the solid earth watched, struck dumb by what they witnessed, and Legolas' unrestrained scream reverberated through the stone passage.

Legolas felt that feeling in the pit of his stomach, the incredible sensation describable only as flying. He chanced a glance before them, not daring to even consider looking down. The land of the opposite side of the gully loomed at them, vast, free earth that held no threat to them. And as the wind ripped at his hair and Blackie's mane whipped his face with sharp stings, he felt a growing sense that this was going to work. The angle of Blackie's flight was right, but only just; it would be a serious quirk of fate if they made it through, one that would cast Blackie through the scrolls of history as The Horse That Could.

The black ears flicked forward as the earth suddenly seemed to rush up at them, the horse bracing himself for the impact. Legolas steeled himself also, ready to potentially jump from the horse's back should he fall upon their landing … his already aggravated stomach dropped. They were short, mere inches separating them from life and plunging into the gaping maw of the gorge below...

There was a resounding _thwack _as hooves touched at the edge of safety, and Legolas felt Blackie's rear dip towards oblivion. The Elf threw his weight forward in the saddle as the horse brought his hind legs under himself to scramble at the rock. There was a sickening cracking sound, and the stone beneath Blackie's hooves began to shift for the water's cold embrace. He gave a sharp squeal of panic, his eyes rolling fearfully as the crumbling ground passed under his belly.

'COME ON, BLACKIE!' Legolas bellowed in his horse's ear. 'NEARLY THERE! COME ON, MELLON NÍN!'

Blackie made a final surge; his forefeet discovered the solid ground in their frantic search, and he leapt again, forcing himself up on a massive chuck of falling stone. The horse stumbled as his feet impacted on the hard, good earth, yet he somehow managed to retain his balance and cantered from the edge, turning to glare at it with his ears flat, Legolas laughing on his back, relief and gratitude towards his horse and the fact that Gwareth sat glaring at him over the water fuelling his new-found happiness.

Across the river, the joyous peels of laughter fell heavily on Gwareth's incensed mind. He snarled at the Elf, cold fury colouring his face. He had expected them to fail and drown, and though it would not have been death by his hand, it would have been death all the same. But the Elf and child were alive and more than well at the other side of the raging waters, the Elf openly mocking him, his scratched face alight with his success.

He would not allow him to get away so! Gwareth forced his grey steed into a gallop, whipping his hide with an arrow until welts appeared in the dark coat. But his horse shied from the edge, planting his feet firmly and refusing to budge any closer to the great abyss that yawned at him. He tired to push his horse through the jump again, bringing him round and kicking him so hard in the ribs it was sure to cause bruising. Gwareth did not care for such things, however, and only after the third attempt did he gave up trying with this animal.

Gwareth's rage became blinding as the laughter continued into the night; he could feel it around him, the very air hummed with it, and as the wind shook the branches high above them, it was as though the trees laughed with the Elf. It had to stop. Now.

The arrow whistled shrilly as it sliced the mocking air. This one was twice as deadly as any other; its tip was of a toxic metal he had discovered men to be using when he had travelled in the south. It was slow and evil in nature, a true collaborator to the vengeful spirit. All it had to do was clip, and the life would be over in a matter of hours … all Gwareth wanted was to watch.

The laughter stopped. Legolas had always been renowned amongst his people as being blessed with incredible speed and accuracy, even for an Elf. It took him less than a second to push Arathorn out of the way to his back, fit an arrow to the string and loose it with pin-point precision. Gwareth's poisoned arrow never made it half way, splintering into pitiful fragments mid-air as the longer, stronger Elven arrow clove the shaft in two.

'You think yourself a master of your craft?' Legolas questioned quietly, his tone deadly serious. 'Well _I_ am a master of mine, and I will not allow any blade of yours to mark him while he is in my charge.' Legolas clicked Blackie into a trot, and they left Gwareth to scream his rage to the wind as he watched his prey disappear into the trees.

Author's Note: That was quick, wasn't it? Bet you're all in shock! Some of you may be thinking about the geography of the south boarder of Mirkwood, and you would be right in saying that there is no river just to the west of the forest. That would be correct: I made it up. Nothing wrong with playing with the rules every now and again. However, for the flow of the story and the scene that has been dancing round my head to run properly, there had to be a river installed to this sequence. It is not the Anduin, I haven't moved that.

Aside from that, I hope you all enjoyed this chapter. Hopefully the next chapter will be up soon - I've yet to write it, but perhaps next week could see this story extended...


	10. Chapter Ten: An Old Friend

Chapter Ten: An Old Friend

Blackie held the trot for two leagues before Legolas finally conceded to allow him to walk. The horse went into the slower gait with a dab of resistance, but Legolas insisted on it, and the stallion grudgingly "slowed" into a fast, unsettled walk, chewing his bit and jerking his head forward as though already bored. Legolas simply dropped the reins in response, allowing Blackie to be as mischievous as he liked. The horse had done him a terrific service that night, one the Elf would never forget…

He had to wonder at his new horse. There was an aptitude to the animal he had never encountered before; the Mirkwood horses, their blood as pure as that of their Elven masters, were known as some of the most highly intelligent of their kind. But _Blackie_, he was _clever_. In such an unyielding situation as they had just emerged from, Legolas would never have thought that any horse would take it upon _himself_ to think such a dire problem through and come to a solution, to carry it through despite the being on his back pulling hard on his mouth to make him cease.

'What is your blood, my friend?' Legolas asked of his horse quietly, smoothing the strong neck. 'From whence have you come?'

The Elf would wonder at that for the entire life of his new companion and beyond. The answer he never knew, but, had he ridden south to the land of the Horsemasters, they would have told him instantly. Blackie was a horse of Rohan. He was not of the Mearas, or of any exceptional breeding. He was foaled on the Plains in a wild heard, the son of an aggressive stallion turned free by the Rohirrim, and captured by them when he was still a colt. Though they were kind and eventually broke him in, there was nothing they could do to make the shadow of Blackie's father leave him. Mathor they called him, Hellraiser, and the stallion lived up to it with relish. He was eventually sold when none could ride him, and men who were not of Rohan became his masters.

An uncooperative temperament met with harsh impatience, and any man wishing to ride the then Mathor _would_ be thrown without a glimmer of thought. Whips were used to dominate him, and the stallion grew to resent mankind deeply through the hurts they inflicted on his body, but still he would not be used.

From hand to hand he was passed over four years, his value dropping with every sale until he was finally swapped at his lowest point for an aged animal on the road that had little life left in it. That had been when Wren had taken him, and the man found himself unable to cope with such a furious and wronged animal. The pair never had a good relationship, and it came to the stage where Blackie, as he was renamed – black in coat, black in spirit – lived confined in the barn and was replaced by oxen. He had no purpose anymore. He had never been told what it was in the first place, nor ever allowed to discover it for himself.

Then Legolas had walked in.

From the instant the Prince entered the barn, Blackie had understood him to be different. He knew him not to be a Man, though man-shaped, which confused him, and he had rushed the other just as he would have any other human. But then the Elf had sung to him. The words were soothing to his angered spirit, and the Elf did not approach him as a beast, but as a creature of flesh and blood meriting respect. There was no force in his tones as he spoke to the horse, and Blackie _knew_ that here was a spirit that would never beat him or try to bend him to his will, and as the bridle had been slipped over his head, Blackie had felt that _this_ was what he was destined for. Everything that had happened to him lead in a twisted path to this new master.

That was why he had pushed himself so strenuously during the chase. His Elven companion felt fear that night beyond anything Blackie had ever sensed through a rider, and he took it upon himself to find a solution to the plight of the Elf. He would not lose the only true master he had ever found, not in one night, not on any.

Dawn snaked her grey fingers across the sky to the east. Legolas watched it over his shoulder in silent thought. The night had been evil, and it lifted his heavy heart to see the sun begin to raise her head to the world. The light would dispel the darkness and cleanse his hurting spirit, and he craved the moment when the tendrils of gold would sweep over the earth fully, the stretching wings of a caged bird…

So much had happened! How could one night alone be sopping with such outrageous fortune, both for him and the child? For the Rangers and Diyrenë? For Wren and Winnera? There was some higher hand at play here, he knew it in his blood.

He glanced down at Arathorn, about whom his arm was still, nestled close to his chest. He no longer screamed, but slept, peace caressing his smooth brow, the furs Winnera wrapped him up in proving to be a worthy shield against the cold. Legolas had never had any experience with babes of such small age, and to find one in his care for he did not yet know how long unnerved him. Babies had demands. They needed constant care and a mother's tenderness, and Legolas felt he could provide neither. But he could not shake from his mind the way Arathorn had stopped crying when Winnera had handed him to his arms. He had felt something then, a stirring deep in his chest, and he remembered the way his riled mind had found peace just through the warm weight he held. The feeling was alien to him, but it was not to be ignored, and the Elf smiled down at his charge, pride welling in his chest as he stared into the face with pure contentment.

_Pride? Do not be a fool, Legolas! You offer your love too freely, and it will be your undoing!_

He flinched at the thought, but had to acknowledge its wisdom. All he was doing was taking the baby to where he belonged. If they were further unhindered, Legolas could get them to the Dúnedain settlement in the Misty Mountains in eight days, maybe seven, and leave Arathorn in the hands of someone capable of his care. Then he would come for Gwareth…

They plodded on through the scrub, the land rolling in lazy hillocks before them. There was little to distinguish this earth, and Legolas found its vast openness unsettling. Towering trees were replaced by boulders of depressing grey, slumped into the snow-coated ground like frozen trolls. Mist hugged at the dips, coating the land like a thicket of pale cloud, yet to be dispelled by the sun's rays.

He slumped a little in the saddle, a sigh escaping his lips before he could counter it. The hurts administered to his left shoulder by both arrowhead and scimitar throbbed at him, demanding his attention as the limb began to stiffen. He would not grace it with such, not right now, but his weary mind nagged him like a nursemaid. He was tired and pained, the night's trials finally beginning to reflect upon him, and he came to realise that he was of little use to Arathorn in his current state. Legolas finally conceded to himself that enough was enough, and if anything Blackie needed rest as much as he did, if not more. The stallion had given much over the last hours, and though the horse – somewhat like his master – was loath to show it, he tired.

'We will find rest, my friend,' he told his horse, patting his neck. 'At the next village, we will stop for a time.'

Blackie's ears flickered at his master's voice, and he carried on with a little more vigour than before, as if the promise of rest was a fuel to him.

Day chased the night back into the abyss of its own creation, the shadows shying from its watery vibrancy. Legolas was glad of it, feeling the pale fingers stretching over his body and chasing his woes off a little from his soul. And in the shy dawn, they trudged on, Legolas feeling his unfamiliarity with the land at his disadvantage as his far-seeing eyes scoured the landscape for any sign of a settlement, or, indeed, for anything even vaguely familiar…

Arathorn began to stir. He shifted discontentedly, writhing with all the strength his small body had, it seemed. A whimpering cry started from the midst of the furs, and Legolas glanced down at his precious charge with concern. The reins were dropped in favour of cradling Arathorn in his arms, and though the Elf bobbed the baby as he had done previously, the action did not work, the diminutive lungs creating such a noise Legolas was momentarily stunned by their power. If there were any ill-favoured beings afoot at that time, they would surely hear.

'Hush! What ails you, little one? Stille nu, sssh! _Saes_, Arathorn!'

He could hardly hear his own words, and the wailing reached such a pitch his plea went completely unanswered. What could possibly be so wrong that he would make such an unforgiving noise? Legolas spurred Blackie into a trot with the vague hope that the pronounced rising action might serve to quieten the screaming cries. It did no such thing.

Legolas' riled mind tried to think of what he could possibly have not done right … Arathorn was warm, he had his full attention, Legolas was talking to him, he had even urged his wearied horse into an unnecessary trot. _Perhaps babies just make a noise sometimes_, he tried to reason with himself. There was another part of him that wished to contend with that thought. _Nothing in this world happens without reason._

_Reason… _It struck him, a sharp blow of realisation him his head. He remembered, almost as if from another life, hearing pups simpering at their mother for milk. Arathorn's cause for grievance was simple: he was hungry.

Legolas found a pouch of milk in the saddlebag. It was cold to his touch, far too cold. He had no means of heating it in this barren land where there were no trees to provide him with wood. The need to find a human settlement was more pressing than he had ever thought…

Blackie was urged to canter across the land, and the horse responded to the command more than gladly, his powerful legs making short work of the distance. Even at this faster pace, it was still a lengthy time until Legolas finally spotted what he sought…

The village was a sprawled mess of small houses, probably little more than a trading outpost that looked as though everyone – including the traders – had forgotten its existence. Men milled around its streets with no true purpose, trudging through the sludge that had once been snow. They cast unfriendly glares in the direction of the stranger who rode through their midst on the large black stallion with a screaming baby in his arms.

The inn was little more than a large shack with a lean-to that offered the meagre potential to house horses. Legolas reined Blackie in just outside the sad-looking building, taking in its drab and unwelcoming exterior with a sceptical eye. It was not long before a young man emerged from within, dark hair hanging lank about his face as though he wished to hide behind it. Legolas watched the man get closer to him, suspicion settling in his chest: the Mirkwood Elves had long ago learnt to be cautious of anyone that deliberately hid themselves from their keen eyes. Sometimes it was uncalled for, like with the Dúnedain, for instance, with whom the Elves held a close alliance. Legolas considered himself slightly more tolerant of humans than other Elves, more often than not willing to accept the strange wont of some of them to hide their faces … but the night had been cruel to his perception of mankind, and the old mistrust warned him to be careful.

The young man flicked back his hair and stared at Legolas. The eyes were of a sloppy green, the face shadowed by a mess of untended stubble, the lipless mouth a thin line as he took in the appearance of his potential guest with the screaming child.

'You're an Elf,' he finally stated, non too politely.

Legolas peaked a brow at this, nonplussed by the apparent lack of hospitality. 'For some time now. Does that matter to you?'

'It'll matter to you,' the man replied, his dirty-coloured eyes glinting a little through their dimness. 'Extra charge for stabling the horse, extra for food and a bed for the night. And extra for mead.'

'I don't want a bed for the night.' The Elf heard the clipped tone in his voice as anger began to raise its head.

The man turned his eyes on Legolas' shoulder. He appeared to be thinking. 'Extra for hot water and a pan, then.'

'Fine.' He took himself from Blackie's back and handed the man the reins. 'Be sure to give this horse plenty of food and water,' he instructed stiffly. Legolas took himself to the door through the mud, not caring as it caked his boots. He was weary and in dire need of rest, and his shoulder awakened, pressing upon him its desire for his attention. As he laid a hand on the door, a voice called after him: 'Food and water for the horse is-'

'Extra! Yes, I know!' And he slammed the door behind him.

There was no-one inside save for an aged man sat at a grubby table with his boots resting on a neighbouring chair. His face was so wrinkled and grey he looked as though a thousand years had passed him by and each day had etched a line into his skin. The same murky eyes stared with rude frankness, and then switched to the still crying baby. 'That had better not carry on, or it'll be out in the slush.'

'He needs food, that is all.'

'Aye, it'd better be.'

He cast the Elf and baby another resentful glare, and eventually rose to his feet and moved towards the rooms at the rear of the bar, indicating to Legolas that he should follow. They passed into a dim corridor with five rooms, and the old man gestured to Legolas that the chamber at the very end was his. He took his leave without a word, turning on his heel and vacating the dark narrow space, not so much as a glance being exchanged between the two of them. Legolas felt no regret at this as he let himself into his chamber … if it could be called that. There was a bed, a chair, and a fire. Filth coloured the walls an interesting shade of grey-brown, the floorboards were tacky underfoot, and the bed sheets discoloured. An odour he could not quite identify hung heavily in the stale air, but as there was no window, he would have to put up with it. And there was a large dark stain in the corner that required no imagination to guess what it was, and its presence made the Elf shudder with revulsion.

The screams of the baby did not allow any time for him to mull over such things as the disgusting nature of their accommodation, however, and Legolas set to heating the child his milk, having laid Arathorn carefully on the bed amongst his furs, mindful to not allow the child to come into contact with the bed sheets.

Warming milk filled his nostrils with its sweet scent, and he forgot for a moment his plight and the events of the night before. His mind neglected where he was and what he was doing there fleetingly, savouring the smell and the memories it stirred within his tiring head. He was no longer in a filthy village, stagnant with neglect: he was home, a mere elfling, hot milk before him on that same kitchen worktable he had sat at not so long ago, a mug steaming comforting vapours into his face. The maids would make him such beverages, sometimes with honey for a treat (the very root of his love of the sweetness his father had often wondered about, as neither the King nor Queen had ever acquired such a taste), often secretly giving him fresh bread to go with it…

He poured the pan back into the water bottle carefully, frowning with concentration. Something inside him laughed at his care … he was an Elf, he could not possibly spill any, and he wondered briefly at the care he took. Once filled and corked with the customised stopper, he lifted the young human child gently to his embrace.

'Here, little one,' he toned softly, carefully watching Arathorn's face as he tilted the bottle to the tiny dark lips. He hardly dared breath as Arathorn stilled his cries and began to suckle. A silence descended upon them, peace finally reigning victorious in the grotty inn, and Legolas could not stop the relieved smile from gracing his features. He had to fight to keep the joyous laugh from escaping his lips and rendering the prevailing quiet beaten. He ensured the bottle remained tilted, care not to allow the baby to drink air making him frown again. Arathorn's face was no longer contorted and red from screaming, but rather complacent and contented with the food now gracing his stomach…

And opened his eyes.

Legolas felt his breath catch in his throat with shock. For a lengthy eclipse of seconds rendered immortal, he forgot himself. He forgot everything he had toiled through over the night … the only thing of any real importance was in his arms, staring up at him with soft, liquid grey eyes. They were watching him intently, steadily observing with a calm and gentle kind of knowledge. _Ah_, they seemed to be saying, _so that is what you look like._

An uncertain smile flittered across his lips. It became surer of itself as the Elf came to believe what he saw … this was the most magnificent thing, wondrous and mystical to him. In all of his three-thousand-odd years on Arda, this was the first time he had ever borne witness to the opening of the eyes of a child. It was at once wonderful and daunting. A sadness touched his heart, though, when he thought of whom should really be witnessing this...

The juddering of the door handle as someone from the outside tried to gain access to his quarters ripped him violently from his reverie. Legolas' head snapped up in alarm, and he had Arathorn set down on the bed in an instant. He slipped behind the door, the comfort of his white knives pressing into his palms, his heart in his throat and trying to make an escape through his mouth. Panic swelled in his breast: surely Gwareth had not been so quick to discover their hiding place? If he had, if it _was_ him, Legolas would see his blood soil the floorboards and create a stain to accompany the one in the corner.

The handle turned fully, the door finally giving up its secrets, and a foot set itself within the confines of the room. A tall figure entered. Legolas was not willing to allow them to orientate themselves. He moved soundlessly round the door's girth and pinned the impostor to the wall in one fluid movement, both knives pressed tightly against the neck of the intruder, which he found to be heavily swathed in – _beard_?

To the Elf's immense surprise, Gandalf the Grey – Mithrandir, as he was known to the Elves – gasped frantically under the pressure of the blades, his face reddening as he fought to keep his throat from being severed by the sharp plains of metal being pressed so keenly to his skin.

'Peace, Legolas!' he gasped, his bulging eyes finding Legolas' own stunned orbs. 'I am no enemy!'

Legolas seemed to realise exactly what he was doing to one of his father's oldest friends and immediately backed off, dropping the knives to his sides and staring at the Istari like an alarmed elfling.

'_Mithrandir_? How-? _What are you doing here_?'

'It may interest you to know,' the wizard replied, though a little hoarsely as he massaged his throat, 'that I was about to ask the very same question of your dear self.'

'I'm-' _Running for my life_. He considered lying to the wizard, but a quick glance at the other confirmed to his head that such a thing would prove fruitless: Legolas was considered "old" by human reckonings. If the Elf was classed as old, Gandalf was _ancient_, and there was next to no lie that could slip by him, not even if it was crafted by an Elf who had had a few millennia to practice in. And the need to talk to someone else, to a _friend_, was an overwhelming need he had not known he possessed. 'I am in trouble, Gandalf.'

The wizard smiled. It was a sad sort of smile, the kind that responds with sympathy to another's plight and offers aid, though it says that it has seen the person in question with troubles many times before. 'I did think as much when I overheard the landlord and his son conversing loudly about an Elf in their inn. I was intrigued to see whom this Elf could possibly be, and wondered if he was in some kind of plight; I know of no sane being who would venture to this place unless they had happened upon some form of mischief.'

Legolas – despite himself – grinned, a curiously dark brow cocked with amusement. 'That is interesting, Mithrandir, seeing as you yourself are here; am I to assume that you too are in trouble? Or simply that this madness you speak of has finally taken you?' He crossed to the bed and lifted Arathorn back into his arms, supporting him over his shoulder and rubbing the baby's back as Winnera had shown him.

'I shall select to ignore that,' Gandalf grumbled, 'and shall endeavour to ask the Prince of Mirkwood exactly _why_ he has a human child in his possession.'

The smile left Legolas' face immediately, and he paced uneasily, still rubbing the child's back. Eventually he stilled. 'It is a long tale, Mithrandir, and one that I do not tell lightly.' He settled Arathorn back in his blankets of fur, content that the child was ready for sleep and stoked the fire. Gandalf seated himself on the grubby chair, observing the Elf quietly as he busied himself with tasks to make the child comfortable.

Legolas eventually seated himself on the bed opposite the wizard. He recounted his tale, starting with the worrying dreams and not missing a detail. He hardly made eye contact with Gandalf as he spoke, often flexing his wounded shoulder and checking the sleeping Arathorn. The Elf's narrative continued for well over an hour. Gandalf never interrupted, listening with a creased brow as he took in every word. The only indication of a reaction to the more horrific accounts was a deepening of the trenches in his aged skin above his eyes.

When Legolas eventually finished, he heaved a shuddering sigh and placed his head in his hands, rubbing his temples as though a headache troubled him – which, Gandalf had to concede, would not be so surprising were it the truth.

'I just don't know what to do, Mithrandir,' Legolas said as he scrubbed at his eyes and face. 'I have a child in my care, a mere babe, and he is hunted by an adversary with skills that match my own too well. I worry that I cannot protect him against a man so powered … and Winnera and Wren were proof that he will stop at nothing to kill a newborn.' The perplexity of his situation and the very great worry that it reflected upon him voiced itself clearly in his tone.

Gandalf observed him quietly from his chair opposite, pity creasing his brow slightly. The Elf looked so _worn_, he thought, as he took in the scratched face of the other and fatigued expression he doubted the Elf even knew was on his face. Legolas kept his eyes closed as he heaved another heavy, heart-felt sigh.

'You should rest, Legolas,' Gandalf advised levelly.

'I cannot rest,' Legolas replied. He rose from his seat, as though even that slightest amount of rest he had afforded himself already was beyond what should be allowed. 'Not while Arathorn is being hunted.' He secured himself a cup of water and began to pace again, his boots sounding dully on the tacky floorboards.

'I fear it is no longer the baby that he hunts, Legolas, but you.'

Legolas ceased his pacing, a light frown on his brow. 'What do you mean?'

'Legolas, I know of this Gwareth,' the wizard said, his eyes intense with the force of what he had to say. 'There are many tales of such a man throughout the Free Lands. His skills lie in his heritage: his mother was an Elf maiden … a lady of your kingdom, in fact, stollen not so long ago by his father, a cruel and heartless man of evil ambition. He has all the skill and grace of the Eldar, from his mother's side, but a black heart to power cruel ambitions, just like his father. Hunting Elves is a pastime for him, a sport. He hates Elves more than anything on this earth, and I fear that he knows who you are. If he kills you, it will be the greatest triumph of his life – the Prince of Mirkwood, the greatest warrior known to these lands-'

Legolas screwed up his nose at this. 'I hardly think so, Gandalf.'

'You may not like it, Legolas,' the wizard said levelly, 'but that is the reputation that surrounds you, and it is the reputation he will know of.'

Legolas frowned at Gandalf lightly, before continuing his repetitive walk. 'You said he is an assassin, a hired thug who kills for coin. He has been hired by someone to kill Arathorn. He chases me because I have the baby.'

'No,' Gandalf contradicted. 'He is after _you_, not Arathorn. Gwareth is from a wealthy family; he needs no coin for his kills. He has come across you during his endeavour to destroy the baby and seeks to slay _you_. You have managed to prove yourself a worthy adversary, Legolas. He is pursuing Arathorn. He _hunts_ you.'

The Elf stood still and mulled Gandalf's words in his mind. _He hunts Elves_… that was nothing really new to Legolas; he had been hunted before, many times before, by both Orc and Man, but to be hunted by a _half-Elven_, that was a thing unheard of. _Then again_, he reasoned_, I only know of one, and I am sure it is not in the mind of the Lord of Imladris to hunt his own kind-_

A strange, hiccoughing noise started amidst the pelts to the top of the bed, and the odd noise swiftly became a cry. Legolas abandoned his thoughts in a heartbeat, taking himself to the baby's side quicker than Gandalf could blink. The wizard watched as the Elf took the now wailing child in his arms and bobbed him up and down, a slender hand rubbing the miniature back. Legolas closed his eyes and sang softly to his charge, and Gandalf smiled gently to himself as he observed…

Legolas was a strong and highly admired leader. Stoic and gifted, he held the love of all those who served under him, respected unquestioningly for his prowess in battle. To all close to his heart, he was loving and true … but the loss of his mother and brother at such an early age, Gandalf knew, had been a cruel blow to him, and his hardened and astute figure as the Prince of Mirkwood was often what people saw, not Legolas. He could be so guarded at times that even the other Elf lords would find it difficult to approach him comfortably … yet as Gandalf watched, the hardened warrior and Prince of Mirkwood changed into someone else, into an Elf who clutched a human child to his breast with great tenderness and what could very well have been a love he did not truly understand.

Arathorn quietened, contented to be bobbed gently in the embrace of his guardian. Legolas pressed his lips to the peach-like skin of the baby's forehead and rested his cheek lightly in the soft, downy hair of Arathorn's crown, his eyes still closed, the song still lighting his lips like the push of spring's warm breeze.

A knowing twinkle came to the wizard's eyes. 'There stands a father before me in the Elven Prince I thought I knew.'

The Elf opened his eyes and stilled his song. 'You really think that to be true of me, Mithrandir?' he asked quietly. Legolas' eyes, always so guarded, had finally let down their sentinel and betrayed him openly to the wizard. Legolas _wanted _to hear it, wanted with all his heart, Gandalf knew, to be told this was so … there was a strong bond already formed between child and protector, and it was clear even to the blindest that Legolas wished to carry the relationship of guardian through Arathorn's life.

'Yes, Legolas, I do,' the wizard replied softly.

Legolas said nothing. His eyes became unseeing, hazed, staring into the fire without really seeing it at all, his long fingers playing absentmindedly with the curly wisps on Arathorn's head. He had been loath to admit it to himself, but the prospect of actually taking Arathorn to the Dúnedain village in the mountains and handing him over to complete strangers was one he did not wish to contemplate. _I swore an oath._

'I cannot do this on my own, Gandalf,' Legolas admitted quietly, speaking more to the fire than to the wizard behind him. 'Not with Gwareth at my back.' He turned, and was puzzled to see the wizard with a knowing smile in his bright eyes. Gandalf straightened his spine, wincing a little as it cracked. 'It just so happens, Legolas, that I know _exactly_ where you may find just the right character to go with you.'


End file.
